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The 


Ragged Messenger 


BY 

W. B. MAXWELL 


“ The people said to the King, There is a Ragged Messenger 
at the Gate. Will you hear his Message ? ” 

Fables of an Eastern Land. 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

Ube IKnicfeerbocfcer press 

1904 

o'V ! & U C* 


the library of 

CONGRESS. 

Two Copies Received 

OCT 11 1904 



rz-a 

.KA^STvR 

Co'p^- 


Copyright, 1904, by 

W. Q,JdAXWELL 

• • 


Published, September, 1904 


Ube ftntcfterbocfcer press, Hew li?orft 


THE RAGGED MESSENGER 



\ 




THE RAGGED MESSENGER 


i 

D R. COLBECK picked up his hat and gloves. 

“Well, Patrington, I must be off.” 

“ Why must you be off? Why be in such a deuce of a 
hurry ? ’ ’ said Lord Patrington somewhat irritably. ‘ ‘ You 
have been away for a year — you can spare me five minutes, 
I suppose. Besides, it ’s raining.” 

“ Is it? Very well. Of course I should like to see Lady 
Sarah. ’ * 

“You ’ll see her if you wait,” said Lord Patrington; and 
he stooped and threw a log upon the fire, and stirred it 
noisily. “ It ’s confoundedly chilly for the time of year! ” 

It was late autumn: a drab-toned afternoon. Dr. Colbeck, 
putting his hat down again upon a table by one of the win- 
dows, looked across Park Lane to the almost deserted park. 
Behind the black railings a solitary carriage passed now and 
then; and beneath the trees, among the falling leaves, dark 
figures flitted by, vague, uncertain, shadow-like. In the 
street below the windows, a sudden patter of rain with a gust 
of wind was sweeping the broad pavements; bus-drivers and 
cabmen were struggling into their tarpaulin capes; two girls 
with bonnet boxes had taken the poor shelter afforded by the 
open porch of my Lord Patrington ’s stately old house. 

Dr. Colbeck turned from the cheerless view and glanced 


3 


4 


The Ragged Messenger 

round the pleasant room — pleasant and homelike in spite of 
the dignity of wide space and splendid decoration. White- 
panelled walls and lofty ceiling; a marble mantelpiece; por- 
traits by Reynolds and Gainsborough; immense double doors 
on either side giving access to the nobler reception rooms; 
but a litter of books and magazines; deep arm-chairs with 
gay chintz covers; photographs, flowers, and the friendly 
wood fire spluttering and flaming on the open hearth. 

“ The fact is, Colbeck, I want your advice.” 

“ Oh, I have retired.” 

“ I don’t want your advice as a doctor — I want it as a 
friend.” 

“ Well, what ’s the matter?” 

“Worry” — and Lord Patrington with a frowning brow 
repeated the word impressively — “ worry! ” 

“ That ’s the universal ailment of the hour.” 

A servant threw open one of the doors. 

“ Yes. Well, I have it with the usual symptoms. Every 
day I grow older and poorer ’ ’ 

“ Lady Tollhurst,” announced the servant. 

Dr. Colbeck took up his hat again while the visitor was 
making her entrance. 

“ Did n’t know you were back in town, Kate,” said Lord 
Patrington. 

“Just returned. How d’ you do, Doctor?” said Lady 
Tollhurst. “ Naturally, the first thing I do is to come and 
seejyou, Patrington.” 

Lady Tollhurst was Lord Patrington’ s sister-in-law, the 
sister of his dead wife; and she and Dr. Colbeck were old 
friends. Indeed, Lady Tollhurst, who had been a well- 
known figure in the great world of London for forty years, 
knew everybody and was liked by nearly everybody. She 
was an old woman with the quick movements and vivacious 
manner of a frivolous girl. She was famous for her worldly 
wisdom and her shrewd criticisms upon men and manners. 
She prided herself, perhaps, on possessing wide sympathies 


The Ragged Messenger 


5 


and catholic tastes; and, trifling with literature, trifling with 
politics, trifling with social economy, she had gone on trifling 
with life in the utmost contentment of mind for decade after 
decade. 

“Naturally I come to you the very first thing,” Lady 
Tollhurst repeated, with a good-humored smile. 

“ I am touched,” said her brother-in-law drily. 

“ And, tell me now, how is Sarah ? ” 

“ Pretty well. Yes, Sarah is well enough ” 

‘ ‘ That ’s right, ’ * said Lady Tollhurst cheerfully. ‘ ‘ Doctor 
Colbeck, why don’t you give up money-making and travel, 
as you advise your patients? Though we could n’t spare 
you of course.” 

“ Could n’t you? ” said Dr. Colbeck, smiling gravely. 

“ No. I ’m sure we should all feel lost without you. 
But you ought to have been in Venice this autumn.” 

“I was.” 

“ No! I never saw you.” 

“ I was only passing through, on my way home.” 

“Where from?” 

“Japan, India, the States — a trip round the world. You 
know, I retired over a year ago,” said Dr. Colbeck, laughing. 

“Really?” and Lady Tollhurst laughed also. “How 
stupid of me not to know, was n’t it?” and she glanced at 
the small jewelled watch on her wrist. “ Where ’s Sarah? 
What were you men talking about — being poor ? I heard 
you. Does Sarah know I ’m here ? Who ’s poor ? We are 
all poor.” 

“ Or feel poor,” said Dr. Colbeck. 

“ It ’s the same thing,” said Lady Tollhurst. 

“It ’s all these new men, don’t you know,” said Lord 
Patrington, “ who make us feel ” 

“I know T , I know,” said Lady Tollhurst. “I begin to 
hate millionaires. They treat the world as a gigantic shop 
and just buy up everything.” 

“ They can’t buy the whole stock,” said Dr. Colbeck. 


6 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ They take the best things in the window. You know 
that big corner house in Grosvenor Square ? * ’ 

‘ ‘ The Duke of Wiltshire’s ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Yes. The finest house in London /have always thought. 
Well,” and Lady Tollhurst settled down in one of the chintz- 
covered arm-chairs by the fire, and held out her thin hands 
to the fitful flames,” that Australian man bought it and 
has almost doubled it, and now he does n’t mean to live in it. 
So they told me at Lady Setley’s last night. Patrington, 
why were n’t you and Sarah there ? ” 

” Sarah refused.” 

“A propos of money,” said Dr. Colbeck, hat in hand, and 
looking into the fire reflectively, ” I ’ll tell you a story.” 

“Is it interesting?” and Lady Tollhurst again consulted 
the little watch. ” Still raining, Patrington ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“It was told me,” said Dr. Colbeck, “ in a letter from a 
young confrere of mine — a clever young man called Farley. 
I give you his name, because, unless I am mistaken, he will 
make it famous some day. Anyhow he has been working 
out one of my pet theories.” 

“ Your story,” said Lady Tollhurst abruptly — “ is it about 
microbes ? ’ ’ 

“ No. Millions. This was a triple millionaire — dying, 
quite alone, in a Liverpool hotel. A lawyer at six and 
eight-pence, a doctor at seven and six, the only people there. 
The doctor had been summoned by a woman who was with 
the dying man.” 

‘ ‘ In what capacity ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ His nurse — or his mistress. She had come from America 
with him, and she waited as long as there was a chance of 
gain — then disappeared. Six and eight had to tell her a will 
was made and executed just before the man lost conscious- 
ness and she would n’t profit by a farthing. Seven and six 
told her he could not rally, so she just walked out of the 
house, and never returned. There ’s a plot for a short story. 


The Ragged Messenger 7 

Alone, with the wealth of a king, and dying in the Inn’s 
best room! ” 

“You ought to write it. What was his name? ” 

“ The name? Farley told me, but I have forgotten.’’ 

“ To whom did he leave his money ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Charity, I daresay. Dying men 
have strange whims.’’ 

“ I call that a feeble plot,” said Lady Tollhurst decisively. 
“A story without an end to it. Don’t write it, please,” and 
she laughed. “Still it A interesting, really. Patrington, 
why don’t you collect amusing tales to tell your friends?” 

“ Well, I have something to tell you. I don’t know if it 
will amuse you,” said Lord Patrington gloomily. 

“Oh, my goodness!” cried Lady Tollhurst. “ I really 
ought to be going.” 

“ Stay and help me. I want your advice.” 

“Oh dear!” 

“You heard about Sarah’s accident?” 

“No.” 

“ I saw some allusion to it — a newspaper paragraph,” said 
Dr. Colbeck. “ I wanted to ask Lady Sarah all about it,” 
and he laid down his hat, and sat listening with keen interest. 

“She was nearly killed at Baker Street Station,” said 
Lord Patrington. 

“ Goodness! ” Lady Tollhurst ejaculated with a suddenly 
serious face. “ Why don’t she stick to the buses like me, 
when I go exploring in queer places ? ” 

“ Some man jumped down and saved her life, did n’t he?” 
asked Dr. Colbeck. 

“ Yes — at the risk of his own. There was a great crowd; 
and, just as the train was coming, she was literally pushed 
off the platform.” 

“ Horrible!” Dr. Colbeck murmured. 

“ The lights were upon her,” — and Lord Patrington rose 
and turned from one to the other as he described the scene, 
— “ like two white eyes, she says. She has an impression of 


8 


The Ragged Messenger 

being pinioned; people waving their arms and crying out; 
the screaming of the brakes in her ears; the hot breath of the 
fire on her face. By George! it turns me sick to think of — 
even now.” 

“A hairbreadth escape!” said Dr. Colbeck. “It was 
bravely done.” 

“ Yes, Colbeck, bravely and cleverly done. The man saw 
that a second train was coming in the other direction; and 
held her, fainting, in his arms between the two — barely space 
to stand in. I can tell you,” added Lord Patrington, with 
a doleful face, “ the shock made me seriously ill.” 

“Were you there at the time?” asked Dr. Colbeck 
quickly. 

* ‘ No. But you may imagine my feelings when I heard 
about it.” 

“ Yes, yes. Of course.” 

“And you may imagine my gratitude! Now,” said Lord 
Patrington slowly, “ what would you do for the man who 
saved her ? ’ ’ 

“ You could hardly do too much,” said Dr. Colbeck with 
enthusiasm. 

“One question,” said Lady Tollhurst. “You have n’t 
told us. Was he by way of a gentleman ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Then,” said Lady Tollhurst, emphatically, “I should 
certainly ask him to dinner.” 

“The newspaper,” said Lord Patrington, disregarding 
this suggestion, “ which you saw, Colbeck, did n’t say who 
the man was? ” 

“No. Who was he?” 

“ The Reverend John Morton.” 

“Good gracious!” Lady Tollhurst exclaimed in shrill 
excitement. 

“ The mad parson ? ” said Dr. Colbeck. 

“ He is not mad. Very eccentric ” 

“ The man who goes about preaching in halls? ” 


The Ragged Messenger 


9 


“ Yes, yes,” said Lord Patrington. “ Halls, railway 
arches, streets, Missions, Shelters, everything except 
churches. They won’t have him there. Whitechapel, 
Ratcliffe Highway — everywhere.” 

“ He has made a tremendous talk,” said Dr. Colbeck 
thoughtfully. ‘ ‘ I know I have read something of his — ser- 
mon, article ” 

“ My dear man,” Lady Tollhurst interposed with much 
excitement, ‘ ‘ do, please, let me speak. I know him. He sat 
next me at Lady Barker’s luncheon party only a fortnight 
ago. But he never said a word about his performance with 
Sarah.” 

“ He did n’t know who you were,” said Dr. Colbeck. 

“ He must have. I made a conquest of him. Besides, 
Patrington was mentioned.” 

“ Oh,” said Lord Patrington, “ he made very light of the 
matter. Called to inquire next day, but did n’t want to 
leave his name.” 

“ He is mad,” said Lady Tollhurst. “ Whether you say 
he is or not, Patrington, he really is quite. — But I liked him 
though. So mild, but so — ” and she tapped her forehead — 
“ so completely original.” 

“He has quarrelled with the Church?” Dr. Colbeck 
asked. 

“Or the Church has quarrelled with him,” said Lord 
Patrington. “ Could n’t tolerate his doctrines.” 

“ What are his doctrines ? ” 

“ Heaven knows what. It ’s all unintelligible to me. It 
seems he thinks he has some wonderful message to convey. 
Don’t know if he knows what it is himself. Anyhow, I 
don’t. But they tell me when he preaches — I ’ve never been 
to hear him — he promises all sorts of wonders as though they 
were going to happen the day after to-morrow. He has a 
deuced odd way of talking about himself in ordinary con- 
versation, a big way, don’t you know — as though he really 
thought he was — ” Lord Patrington checked himself. 


io The Ragged Messenger 

“ Well, I won’t say what has more than once occurred to me. 
But I ’ll tell you the nickname which I understand he goes 
by in the Bast Bnd. The rude Kast-Enders call him the 
Mad Messiah. ’ ’ 

“ I told you he was mad,” said Eady Tollhurst. 

“No, no. Colbeck would n’t certify him, I ’m quite sure 
of that. But as to this message of his: the only clear idea 
seems to be that we ought to practise the virtues of the early 
Christians — and especially — ’ ’ Lord Patrington looked round 
the room, at the portrait of his great-grandmother by Rey- 
nolds, at a Sevres vase that had been the property of Napo- 
leon Bonaparte — “ give away all we have — if not more.” 

“Not likely to prove popular! ” said Dr. Colbeck. 

‘ ‘ Then : Boundless benevolence and unquestioning charity ! 
Take all sinners and sufferers by the hand — clothe them in 
fine linen and feed them on the proceeds of your gold plate 
— if you ever had any. ’ ’ 

“ That does n’t hit me,” said Dr. Colbeck. 

“ For the rest — reinstate all outcasts, and down with the 
Pope and the Archbishop of Canterbury ! ” 

“ A fine programme,” said Dr. Colbeck. “ Meantime he 
lives on it.” 

“Or starves on it. Honestly, I believe he is genuine. 
They tell me he has spent all the money he ever had, and 
that he spends all he can make, or beg, in charity.” 

‘ ‘ Eccentric, indeed ! ’ ’ 

“ He has n’t asked me personally,” said Lord Patrington, 
“ for a shilling.” 

“And you have n’t given him one,” said Dr. Colbeck, 
smiling. “ Quite right.” 

“ Do let me tell you about him at Eady Barker’s,” said 
Eady Tollhurst. “ He was most polite to me. I think, don’t 
you know, that he noticed I had a handle to my name.” 

“ My dear Kate, he has n’t a notion of class distinctions of 
any sort. Universal brotherhood ! He called me Patrington, 
tout court , the second time I saw him.” 


The Ragged Messenger n 

“ Did he? Really! ” said Dr. Colbeck, smiling again. 

“ And ‘ old fellow ’ the third time. Not that I care what 
he calls me,” said Lord Patrington, magnanimously. “As 
I said, the fellow ’s a gentleman. I only mention it to give 
you an idea of the man.” 

“ Well,” said Lady Tollhurst, waving away interruptions, 
“at Lady Barker’s, the Bishop of Winchboro’ was sitting 
opposite. You know Lady Barker always invites the very 
oddest collection of people. You go there, Doctor, don’t 
you?” 

“No, no.” 

“And this Mr. Morton fell upon him — the Bishop, don’t 
you know — oh, he tackled him about the Church, and really 
mauled him. The poor Bishop got so hot and flustered and 
angry. Everybody at the table felt uncomfortable. It 
really was one of the most successful parties Lady Barker 
has ever given.” 

“ You don’t say so! ” 

“/ enjoyed it, Dr. Colbeck. To me the Rev. John was 
most entertaining. He told me a lot of stuff about the im- 
portance of women. No man, he said, can do good work in 
the world without a woman by his side.” 

“ I don’t like that,” said Lord Patrington, frowning. “ I 
don’t like that at all.” 

“ Why not? Most gallant, I thought it.” 

“ That was the idea,” said Dr. Colbeck, “ in what I read 
of his. The necessity of women! It was thoughtfully 
written.” 

“Yes. But he puts it all in the quaintest way,” Lady 
Tollhurst continued. “ He says it ’s the great flaw of Ca- 
tholicism. Let me remember. How did he put it ? Yes. 

‘ Celibacy is the maggot that has eaten the Roman cheese. ’ 
I thought — * He wants a woman in his work! ’ There ’s a 
chance for the debutantes ! ” and Lady Tollhurst laughed 
heartily. 

“You are easily amused,” said Lord Patrington, with 


12 


The Ragged Messenger 

deepening gloom. “It ’s not a laughing matter to me. 
What do you think of his having dragged Sarah into it 
all?” 

‘ * How ? How has he done that ? ’ ’ Dr. Colbeck asked 
anxiously. 

“ For the last two months she has been about with him 
continually. Taken up the whole thing ! Talks — like a fool 
— of his having saved one life and given her another. * ’ 

‘ ‘ Bless us and save us ! ” cried Lady Tollhurst. 

“ She goes with him,” said Lord Patrington, slowly and 
solemnly, “everywhere. Among dreadful people — fallen 
women.” 

“Oh,” said Lady Tollhurst, “ that ’s all the rage. Slum- 
ming is completely dead. But the other is quite the thing.” 

“Not for my daughter.” 

“I assure you,” said Lady Tollhurst, “Lady Melton is 
wrapped up in it. She has started a club — for the Piccadilly 
ladies. It got on her nerves to see them outside her house 
on wet nights. ’ * 

“My dear Kate!” 

“ It ’s a fact. I am on the Committee. Lady Melton is 
going to give a ball at the club for the poor things, and she 
says it ’s positively humiliating to find how eager all the best 
dancing men are for cards. ’ ’ 

“That sort of thing,” said Lord Patrington, severely, 
“ may be all very well for you and other fashionable women. 
But not to be taken up by an unmarried girl — certainly not 
in the headstrong way Sarah goes to work. She refuses all 
her invitations. Prefers a sermon from the Rev. John to a 
dinner at ’ ’ 

A servant had come into the room, and his lordship broke 
off abruptly. The man’ s murmured communication appeared 
to be anything but soothing to his master’s mind. 

“ Say he is not here — and you don’t know when he will 
be,” said Lord Patrington, loudly and impatiently. 

“Yes, my lord.” 


13 


The Ragged Messenger 

Lord Patrington waited until the servant had gone, and 
then explained the cause of his irritation. 

‘ ‘ It was somebody for Mr. Morton — ‘ a Mr. Bigland has 
called to see Mr. Morton and desires to know if he shall 
wait! ’ Oh, that ’s nothing! Quite a usual occurrence. 
You see, I told the Reverend — in the first flush of my grati- 
tude — that if ever I could do him a service he might com- 
mand me, and begged him always to consider himself at 
home here. And,” said Lord Patrington, opening his arms 
in a gesture of despair, “ by George! he has made himself at 
home. He and his followers have made the place their own. ’ ’ 

“They don’t have their meetings here?” asked Lady 
Tollhurst, apprehensively. 

“ One or two a week. I tell you Sarah is infatuated. I 
often think if my poor wife had lived to see the people who 
have been coming up that staircase lately ’ ’ 

“Oh, it must n’t go on,” said Lady Tollhurst. “ It must 
be stopped.” 

“ The worst of it is,” said Lord Patrington, “ Sarah seems 
to be losing all sense of the fitness of things.” 

“ I can’t think that,” said Dr. Colbeck. 

“ In that room ” — and Lord Patrington, with outstretched 
hand pointing to one pair of the big folding doors, continued: 
“ In that room, in which my mother welcomed society in the 
days when society existed — and where George the Fourth 
and all his brilliant circle used to sit, night after night, in 
my grandfather’s time — Sarah and the Reverend John ” — 
Lord Patrington dropped his hand, and his voice was full of 
bitter disgust — “ Sarah and her parson have had their meet- 
ings and said prayers and sung hymns.” 

“ It does sound incongruous,” said Dr. Colbeck with a 
very faint smile. 

“Oh, it must all be stopped at once ! ” said Lady Tollhurst, 
decisively. 

“ Carriage is at the door, my lord,” announced the servant, 
and withdrew. 


14 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ That ’s for Sarah, — not for me. She ’ll be with us in a 
moment,” said L,ord Patrington, hurriedly, and in a lower 
voice. “ Now, I ask you both, how is it all to end? I 
should n’t be so anxious if her mother were alive. Is she 
to go about with him for ever?” 

“ No! ” said L,ady Tollhurst, eagerly. 

“ Most certainly not! ” said Dr. Colbeck emphatically. 

“ Girls are strange creatures. You can see what I am 
afraid of ” 

“You are afraid,” said Dr. Colbeck, “that this par- 
son ’ ’ 

“ May ask me to pay my debt in a way that ’s impossible.” 


II 


“ 'T'HAT would never do,” whispered Dr. Colbeck, as 
I Lady Sarah Joyce came into the room. 

She was a tall girl, with dark hair, a pale face, and a 
stately bearing. Easy and self-composed and gracious, she 
seemed on a first impression of a not unusual type of well- 
born, well-nurtured, carefully guarded English girlhood: 
aristocratically commonplace, gracefully uninteresting. But 
her pale face, as it became familiar, had many and changing 
expressions; the gray eyes kindled and glowed, and a fleet- 
ing sadness about the gentle mouth was quickly banished by 
a smile that had in it both mirth and sympathy. Thus it 
was that people who knew her fairly well generally said that 
Lady Sarah had considerable charm, and her old friends — of 
whom Dr. Colbeck was one — were inclined to think her 
beautiful. 

‘‘How are you, Aunt Kate?” said Lady Sarah with a 
greeting which contained very little warmth. ‘‘Ah, Doctor. 
You don’t know how we ’ve missed you.” 

“No?” 

Her manner had become cordial as Lady Sarah turned to 
Dr. Colbeck. 

“Yes, we have, dreadfully. And what discoveries have 
you made on your travels ? How did you find the world ? ’ ’ 

“ Well, it is round,” said. Dr. Colbeck, holding her hand 
in his. “ Or I should never have got home without turning 
back.” 

“ Oh, what wit! ” and the pleasant, friendly smile which 
15 


1 6 The Ragged Messenger 

Dr. Colbeck knew so well came and went. “Aunt! I am 
obliged to go and leave something for a sick friend. It is 
only across the Park ” 

“ Oh, don’t mind me, my dear,” said Lady Tollhurst. 

“ I sha’n’t be a quarter of an hour,” said Lady Sarah, 
fastening her fur cloak about her neck. 

Dr. Colbeck with observant eyes watched the slender, un- 
gloved hand. It looked too white on the gray fur. The 
blue veins showed, and the long fingers were thinner than 
they ought to have been. The hollows round her eyes 
seemed darker than Dr. Colbeck remembered, or perhaps it 
was only a shadow from the big black hat. She looked like 
a princess, Dr. Colbeck thought — in her long purple cloak 
with the gray fur collar — so stately and fragile and pale. 
But she did not look quite the Lady Sarah of a year ago. 
She was certainly thinner, and there was something of sup- 
pressed, but vibrating, excitement in her eyes and in her 
voice that was new. Some tones in the voice were undoubt- 
edly different: stronger but less musical than in the past. 

‘ ‘ I hear of fine goings-on during my absence, ’ ’ said Lady 
Tollhurst, with over-exuberant cheerfulness. 

“ Frightening everybody out of their wits,” said Dr. Col- 
beck, unconsciously catching the note ; “ too bad, too bad! ” 

“ I am glad you have told them about it, father.” 

“Oh, yes, I have told them.” 

“ Of his heroism,” said Lady Sarah. 

“ Presence of mind,” said Dr. Colbeck. 

“He saved my life,” said Lady Sarah, pulling on her 
glove, “ and has made it worth living.” 

“ Oh, my dear child — ” cried Lady Tollhurst. 

As her niece turned away, Lady Tollhurst cast her eyes 
upwards and pantomimed signs of abject distress to Dr. Col- 
beck. Dr. Colbeck stood staring blankly at Lady Tollhurst. 

“Father,” said Lady Sarah, gathering together some 
books which lay on the top of a bureau, “ Mr. Morton is not 
coming to-day.” 


The Ragged Messenger 


1 7 


“ That ’s remarkable,” said Lord Patrington; “ he comes 
most days.” 

“ Father ! ” said Lady Sarah, reproachfully, “ he has n’t 
been here for a whole week. I have been anxious and a 
little wounded.” 

“ I have n’t taken offence.” 

“ But he has written to me,” said Lady Sarah, “ and he 
promises to come to-morrow afternoon.” 

“Does he?” 

“ He will bring his follower ” 

“ Only one? He generally moves with a troop.” 

“ This is his special follower,” said Lady Sarah, arranging 
the books in a neat little pile. “ Mr. Bigland, of whom I 
have often spoken. These books are for him. If Mr. Big- 
land should call to-day ” 

“ He did call — I believe,” Lord Patrington confessed. 

“ And they never told me!” said Lady Sarah regretfully. 
“Of course I would have seen him. If he comes back, 
please give him these, ’ ’ and she pointed to the books. 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Au revoir , Aunt Kate. Perhaps you won’t be gone, 
Doctor, when I get back.” 

Dr. Colbeck, with a gravely observant face, stood waiting 
to open the door. 

“ Oh, father,” and Lady Sarah turned again, “ in his let- 
ter Mr. Morton says that to-morrow afternoon he wants to 
speak to you as well as to me ” 

“What about?” 

“ I have no idea. He says nothing, except that it is a 
great favor which he has to ask. I feel sure that whatever 
it is, you ought to grant it.” 

Lord Patrington had turned his back and, with frowning 
brows, was looking into the fire. 

“ You seem to have great confidence in Mr. Morton,” said 
Dr. Colbeck at the door, “ to admire him very much.” 

“ I do,” said Lady Sarah, giving him her hand. “ I 


1 8 The Ragged Messenger 

admire him more than any one I have ever seen, and nearly 
as much as — anybody I have ever learnt about — or read 
of.” 

“ If he deserves your good opinion ” 

“ He does. I want you to know him.” 

“So do I.” 

“ You ’ll think as I do. Don’t come down.” 

Dr. Colbeck, closing the door behind Lady Sarah, turned 
from it with a very serious face. There w T as a pause until 
the last sound of footsteps had ceased, and then Lord Patring- 
ton broke the perturbed silence. 

“Well?” 

“Oh, my poor, dear Patrington,” said Lady Tollhurst, “ it 
is too deplorable! I never saw anything like it in my life. 
She is altogether changed — changed beyond belief.” 

“ Do you think she is ? ” 

“ I know she is. She has caught the man’s tone. That 
mild earnestness, the far-away look, the absent-minded 
manner.” 

“ What do you think, Colbeck ? ” 

“ I have always had a very high opinion of Lady Sarah’s 
abilities, her intellectual ’ ’ 

“ But you have been very wrong, Patrington,” said Lady 
Tollhurst, interrupting, “ to allow things to go on to such a 
point. Seeing her fall under the man’s influence — not to 
make an effort, not to check it, stop it all somehow or other. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I must confess I agree with Lady Tollhurst, ’ ’ said Dr. 
Colbeck. 

“What could I do?” said Lord Patrington, irritably. 
“You know what girls are, as obstinate as the devil directly 
3'ou try to thwart them ” 

“You should have summoned Emily,” said Lady Toll- 
hurst. “ Emily would n’t ” 

“Emily refused to come. I did ask her,” said Lord 
Patrington, angrily. ‘ ‘ Besides, Emily is a bigger fool than 
her sister.” 


19 


The Ragged Messenger 

Eady Emily Tyrrell was an elder, married daughter. 
With a contented, easy-going, bucolic husband, a lovely 
place at Wheatley, in Oxfordshire, extensive and attractive 
gardens, and a suite of well-tenanted nurseries, with ample 
means and no cares beyond the j uvenile ailments of her chil- 
dren, Eady Emily was the occasion of old-established com- 
plaint from her father. From her marriage day ten years 
ago, it seemed that she had never done anything to prove 
herself other than an ungrateful and oblivious daughter. 
She strenuously plotted and schemed against her father’s 
ambitions, by at all times debarring her rich husband from 
holding any stake in the new companies which at intervals 
had been launched with the name of Patrington on the list 
of directors. At odd and inconvenient moments she came 
smiling and chattering to Eondon, and with two or three 
noisy and irrepressible infants, their nurses and governesses, 
used the big house in Park Eane as the best of all hotels — 
the free hotel in which one may grumble without paying the 
bill. She came thus when she was not wanted again and 
again; but if you wanted her, if you were in trouble, if by 
any chance her presence would be of use to anybody — to 
chaperon Sarah, to read aloud or write one’s letters or play 
piquet when one had the gout — you called for her in vain. 
Eady Emily was in despair; her gentle heart was torn by the 
dilemma in which you had placed her. But she could not 
come. A gigantic gardening operation was in a critical state 
of half-completion — no less than the moving on rollers of the 
whole range of succession houses, or the lifting by two feet 
ten inches of the sunk rose-garden — the one with the sun-dial 
— or two beds in the west nursery had been suddenly filled 
by most appalling nettlerash. Impossible to get away, for 
three weeks at least! But meantime, Emily sincerely hoped 
that the little cloud in the Eondon sky would blow over, and 
whatever the trouble might be, she ventured to offer the 
humble, homely advice, to make the best of it. 

Eord Patrington was angry at the mere thought of Emily’s 


20 The Ragged Messenger 

advice, which, he explained, she had sent him again on this 
occasion. 

“ Oh, why is n’t Sarah married!” cried Lady Tollhurst 
dolefully. “ It ’s too dreadful to think of. At her age— 
Sarah is getting on. Sarah ’s getting on for thirty, is n’t 
she? Oh, she ought to have made a big match years 
ago.” 

“ I only wish she had! ” 

“ If you had done your duty, Patrington, you would have 
hung on to one of these new men — you would have married 
her to the last new Croesus. ’ ’ 

“ I never had a chance.” 

“ She ought n’t to have been given time for such foolish- 
ness.” 

“ Lady Sarah,” said Dr. Colbeck, “ will never do anything 
really foolish.” 

“ My dear man, what do you call foolish ? ” 

“ I believe,” said Lord Patrington, “ I don’t for a moment 
doubt, that when he comes to-morrow, he means to ask me 
for her hand. ’ ’ 

“You will refuse?” said Dr. Colbeck, quickly. 

“ Refuse! Of course I shall refuse.” Lord Patrington 
was walking about the room, made restless by his discomfort 
of mind. “ But there may be the devil to pay. You don’t 
know what girls are. You don’t know the man. Refuse! ” 
and Lord Patrington laughed satirically. “ Upon my word, 
that ’s a wonderful and valuable piece of advice, Colbeck. I 
ask your advice as a man of the world, how I am to do my 
task, and all you have to say is: ‘ Do your task.’ ” Lord 
Patrington stalked across to the windows with his hands in 
his trousers pockets, after giving a shrug of the shoulders 
expressive of disgust of all things, including married and 
unmarried daughters, female connections by marriage, and 
masculine friends. 

“ Of course I shall refuse,” he said again, coming back to 
the fire. “ But I want you to help me — to support me. I 


21 


The Ragged Messenger 

ask you both. Come to-morrow and help me through it. I 
am not as young as I once was; and — and these upsets upset 
me most infernally. You, Colbeck, can be of use in dealing 
with the man. And you, Kate, can be of the greatest use in 
dealing with Sarah. I tell you, Colbeck, you don’t know 
the man. Help me to tackle him. He carries big guns.” 


Ill 

D R. COLBECK, deep in thought, walked up Park Lane 
and turned into Oxford Street without considering or 
caring where he might be going. 

He was thinking of his feeble, selfish, incompetent old 
friend, the fourth Earl of Patrington; of the Lady Sarah, his 
second daughter; and of this miserable psalm-singing, street- 
preaching figure — black, sinister, and ominous — which blind 
chance had brought from the outer darkness to taint the 
flower-scented atmosphere, to obscure the tempered sunlight, 
and throw its grotesque shadow upon the velvet pile and the 
burnished parquetry of Park Lane. What a monstrous and 
unendurable thing it would be were such an intruder to 
snatch and bear away the one priceless treasure of the stately 
house ! What a fate for a woman so reared to fall — with no 
hand outstretched to save her — into the life-long embrace of 
such a mate ! A loud-mouthed, ranting, tub-thumping orator, 
as bad, nearly, as the seedy socialists and half-drunken dema- 
gogues bellowing on their chairs to the wide emptiness of 
Hyde Park on a summer’s day by the Marble Arch! Ac- 
cepting Patrington’ s assertion that the fellow was genuine, 
and not a hypocritical peddler of things divine, a cheap-jack 
selling his nostrum of salvation to earn his daily bread, at 
the best, how could one hold him to be higher than this — a 
crackbrained fanatic, a cranky self-deceiver ? 

By the flaring shop-fronts, through the mean splendor 
and sordid profusion, the vulgar sellers and more vulgar 
buyers of Oxford Street, Dr. Colbeck instinctively turned 


22 


The Ragged Messenger 


23 


his steps in the direction of his old home — the house in 
Cavendish Square which he had occupied for so many years, 
first as a barely prospering, then as a fashionable and suc- 
cessful consulting physician. And, as he walked eastward, 
along the dirty pavements, beneath the black and smoke- 
stained houses, while the colorless day faded into a misty 
dinginess of night, that all-pervading spirit of the town itself 
— this living ugliness of London which he had not known 
for a year — the lurking Spirit of Sudden Sadness seemed to 
take him by the hand and whisper to his brooding thoughts 
wordless messages of pain and weariness. 

But the lurking spirit which thus lies in ambush and 
pounces has little power over strong men. Like other and 
living phantoms of the London pavements, it takes one by 
the hand and keeps pace step for step, but soon drops behind. 
A drag at one’s sleeve, a last whisper, and the thing has 
been shaken off and you are free again. It has been but an 
invitation and a repulse — no more. At the corner of Bond 
Street, amidst the little crowd waiting for the omnibuses, 
Dr. Colbeck, who was in truth an unusually strong man, 
shook himself free of his dark fit; and, with head erect and 
firm, free footfall, turned southward towards the new flat 
which was henceforth to be the home of his bachelorhood. 

After all, what difference would it make to him — in either 
event ? 

Dr. Colbeck had wasted very few hours of his active, hard- 
working life. At forty-seven years of age he had done as 
much work as many a busy man in twice the time. But, 
from the first, he had loved the work. He was as vigorous 
and healthy now, in mind and body, as when after winning 
distinction at Cambridge he had begun to walk the London 
hospitals twenty-five years ago. A second son of a decent 
Leicestershire family, he had been born to independence, a 
modest sufficiency of means which, in the opinion of all 
his people, rendered science an unworthy and incongruous 
mistress. With so much natural ability, diplomacy seemed 


24 


The Ragged Messenger 

indicated as a suitable avenue to fame; or, if he had an in- 
herent distaste for courts and embassies, why not the Foot 
Guards with additional parental grants in aid, while he took 
things easy and looked about him for a few years ? To their 
simple minds a country doctor and a Tondon doctor were much 
the same thing; and a thing which they held to be of very 
small account indeed. 

But they did not quarrel with him. They pocketed their 
slighted advice and saved their proffered allowance, and used 
all their influence to obtain for the vagrant youth at this 
early stage of his career the countenance and consideration 
of such great people in London as they could by any means 
get at. Thus, in these days, young Dr. Colbeck found him- 
self admitted to certain of the great houses of the noble and 
the powerful; and coming, from hospital wards and crowded 
streets in which poverty and suffering stretched out implor- 
ing hands all day long towards the wise young healers, to 
the glittering board and the solemn magnificence of his con- 
descending hosts, was afforded an opportunity of studying 
the contrast between the splendors and the miseries of life. 
At such solemn dinners, of a pomp and fashion which have 
passed away, the young doctor was privileged to meet some 
of those whose names are written year by year on the 
crowded and rapidly obliterated scroll of worldly fame: — 
cabinet ministers, great advocates, successful generals, the 
author of the hour, the artist of the moment. Sometimes 
one of these illustrious graybeards would vouchsafe to him a 
few words of kindly intent, snatching an opportunity on 
shallow staircases or beneath lofty doorways to encourage, 
to inspire. “ My dear sir, you have chosen a noble profes- 
sion. I might, perhaps, say the noblest calling a man can 
honor himself by following. I have often thought, and not 
without regret, that had circumstances given me a freedom 
of selection I would have chosen it myself.’ ’ And young 
Dr. Colbeck would smile and look pleasant,— to do which is, 
of course, all that a modest and well-bred young man should 


2 5 


The Ragged Messenger 

do on such occasions. Nevertheless, endowed with shrewd 
observation and a strong sense of humor, he was quick to 
note this well-known trait of successful greatness: the dis- 
belief in specialized faculties, and the confidence that similar 
greatness must have resulted from effort in any direction. 
But this early glimpse of the high and the mighty in the 
well-guarded privacy of their hours of relaxation, was only 
transient and fleeting. The great houses had done their 
duty; they had responded to the appeal; their big doors, 
yielding to external pressure, had swung on their hinges 
and opened inwards once, twice, perhaps three times, and 
had then closed again. On his part, he had done his duty: 
called and left his card with his impossible, out-of-the-world 
address on it after each banquet, and had gone away well 
contented; grateful, as a student of all types of his fellow 
kind, for the glimpse of these rare specimens; understanding 
the unwritten law of great houses which governs the swing 
of their doors. They had opened at the beginning of his 
journey, and would not open again until he had reached his 
goal. 

Then followed years of unremitting labor. Driven by the 
spur of a high-minded ambition, he gave of his best, the ut- 
most that was in him, in his effort to do something, howso- 
ever small, for the good of his fellows. With hand and with 
brain, with tongue and pen, he humbly and strenuously 
labored to make some advance in the mighty task which has 
for its aim the lessening of the sum of pain in the annual 
audit of the world’s progress. Following the pioneers of 
thought, in the forefront of the battle waged by science 
against the powers of darkness, no new theory was too daring 
for him to welcome, no toil of research too heavy for him to 
attack. And, gradually and very slowly, he began to gain 
reward, the only reward he valued — recognition from the 
luminous workers, the master-minds, the great originators 
themselves. He was doing good work, they said, really 
assisting, not hindering. This much was from one of the 


26 


The Ragged Messenger 

leaders. Then, now and again, a leader would accept of aid 
from him; would set him a task: like a sensible master with 
a bright pupil, would give him something to do which 
wanted doing, but which would be a squandering of precious 
time for the master himself — to clear up the confusion caused 
by some foolish fellows, to bring some untidy piece of work- 
manship into order and neatness. Then as time passed, 
more and more praise came to him. He had, in a pamphlet, 
shown some weak links in the chain of logic of a very strong 
thinker; his last two articles in the heavy reviews had ex- 
hibited a widely comprehensive view of a very wide field; 
his volume in amplification of the new Leipzig theory of 
changing neuroplasm was a distinctly valuable contribution 
to the literature of this branch. One of the greatest of living 
men, in Colbeck’ s opinion, said to him, in effect, — “ We are 
proud of you. Go on and prosper — but, Colbeck, — if I may 
give you a word of counsel — begin to concentrate.” 

It was the same venerable mentor who, five years later, 
advised him to go into general practice. An opportunity 
had occurred; an offer which most people would term advan- 
tageous had come unsought from a man of established repu- 
tation to share his steady and reasonably lucrative practice 
in Cavendish Square. To his eminent and respected mentor, 
Colbeck went in doubt and in fear, as to an unerring judge 
from whose lips he was to hear his sentence. Already he 
knew in his heart that he had shot his bolt and fallen short 
of the mark; that in spite of receptive brain, intuitive per- 
ception, rapid and comprehensive power of analysis and in- 
duction, singleness of aim and intentness of purpose, not to 
him had been given the sacred flame, the light-giving torch. 
He might enlarge, he would never originate; he might be a 
useful lieutenant, he could never be a leader. All this his 
old friend conveyed to him in the most kind and suavest 
manner as his own opinion also. 

“As to your writing,” said the eminent mentor, “ I would 
not, if I were you, attach too much importance to that. But 


27 


The Ragged Messenger 

so far as it goes, why, my dear boy, you will have more 
leisure to devote to it; and it will therefore gain rather than 
lose.” 

It was the bitterest pill which that learned hand had ever 
administered. 

paying aside all his splendid hopes, as a man going into 
exile puts by his fine clothes, full-dress uniform, or court 
dress, scarce daring to tell himself that he will one day return 
to take them out and wear them once more, Dr. Colbeck 
ordered his brass plate and went to Cavendish Square. It 
was hard work now, because for a time it was bitter work; 
but he stuck to it manfully, giving his services at the hos- 
pital still, practising his healing art in the old black streets 
with no guerdon and little gratitude, as well as earning 
the fees and thanks of his well-to-do clientele. The dull 
years flew: in the unchanging routine of his days the 
wheel of time spun faster and faster. His partner had 
retired, and he was alone with a practice that was slowly 
shrinking, when, in a moment, it seemed, he was sought by 
all the town and making more money than he knew what to 
do with. 

By way of relaxation from his serious writing he had done 
some light articles for one of the popular monthly reviews. 
It amused him, in treating of social problems, — the unequal 
distribution of wealth, overcrowding, underfeeding, how the 
poor live, and such hackneyed themes, — to give free play 
to the sense of humor which he had always possessed, and 
to a certain cynical method of expressing himself which had 
come to him gradually with his experience of the world. 
Editors asked for more of the same sort of thing; and, in a 
still lighter vein, he turned his pen to the question of how 
the rich live. He gave them worldly philosophy and medical 
advice woven together with a thin thread of fun — soundest 
of advice in the most flimsy and fantastic garb — telling them 
that they starved their minds and overloaded their stomachs; 
thought too little, slept too much; and showed them that in 


28 


The Ragged Messenger 

wrapping their lives in cotton wool, they did not take suffi- 
cient care that it was the proper wool from the most sanitary 
of jewellers’ shops. This class of thing was a novelty in 
those days, and the writer of the articles achieved a success 
by which he was humiliated. He had offered the treasures 
of his intellect and nobody wanted them; and now all the 
world welcomed its sweepings as a priceless gift. 

Once more those big doors swung inwards to make hos- 
pitable passage for the last new fashionable physician; the 
great houses, or the living and often bilious presiding spirits 
of them, came to Cavendish Square to put out their furred 
tongues and grovel in gratitude for that which their footmen 
obtained without necessarily saying ‘ ‘ Thank you ’ ’ at the 
chemist’s round the corner. Far-off country castles — im- 
movablepiles of granite on Scottish moorland, and frowning 
Norman keeps by sluggish midland streams — flashed their 
summons, and had their pulse felt in a hurry which laughed 
at distance and scorned the tale of guineas per mile. In his 
waiting-room the Tollhursts and Meltons, the Patringtons 
and Wiltshires patiently waited their turn; in his consulting- 
room Fashion, with Frivolity sitting as chaperon, back turned 
and ear pricked, besought him in hysterical panic to say just 
once again that there was nothing the matter with her; or 
masculine Folly, pretending to have caught a feverish desire 
to be wise, appealed as to an Oracle for some new golden rule 
of conduct. Standing on his hearthrug, with gravely smil- 
ing face, he dealt out his wise-man lore: not medicine but 
common sense. He told the silly young ladies to go for a 
long walk, and the idle young men to go and get married. 
And day by day his fame grew, and month by month the 
rivulet of gold flowed into his banking account and mounted 
and spread into a wide lake on the carefully drawn map of 
his pass-book. He is more than a doctor, said the fashion- 
able world: he is a magician; and from one to another the 
legend of his wisdom was confidentially whispered. “ He 
told me that when a fellow gets to my age — say thirty, a 


2 9 


The Ragged Messenger 

fellow wants a wife. I should never have thought it, but, 
upon my honor, I believe a fellow does! ” 

Listened to as a wise man by day, he was listened to as a 
funny man by night. No dinner party was complete, it ap- 
peared, without the assistance of the shrewdly cynical and 
humorously critical Dr. Colbeck. Feted and applauded, he 
found like many a wit that an established reputation is more 
than half the battle in the saying of good things; that very 
small jokes are sufficient to satisfy very big people; and that 
this order of fame is nourished not only by what you say 
yourself, but by what is invented and said for you. Dr. 
Colbeck took it all as it came — the success, the lengthening 
rouleaux of pounds and shillings, the dinner parties, the 
foolish praise, the frivolous friendship of the world — with a 
calm, grave face and a steady composure of demeanor. One 
thing only amazed him. Those great lights, the master- 
minds, to whom trash, however popular, must still be trash, 
affected also to welcome his nonsense as inspired writings. 
The skilled hands, whose life-task it was to beat out grain 
from chaff, grasped his in congratulation. “ Invaluable,” 
said the revered white heads, nodding in approbation, — 
‘ ‘ work which any one might be proud of — work that will 
live. ’ ’ He could only think of that phrase of a great phrase- 
maker. He had shown them the Medusa-head of Success, 
and the critics — even such critics as these — had been frozen 
into acquiescence. 

The necessity of women! That was the theme of the mad 
parson. Love, comradeship, solace and strength, in work 
and idleness — some one to share the labor, to share the re- 
wards! Dr. Colbeck, on his hearthrug, proclaimed the law; 
told his male patients of over thirty to obey it without delay: 
bade them go forth and find for themselves wives. Yet, in 
his own case, he, the lawgiver, had disregarded the law. 

But his life had not been entirely loveless. 

One winter’s day chance had brought him a new patient 


30 


The Ragged Messenger 

— a pretty, nervous, shyly confidential stranger, who was 
suffering from insomnia. She had been shopping in Regent 
Street, she explained, and, walking through the square, she 
had suddenly decided to ring the first doctor’s bell and go 
boldly in and ask for sleep. Anything would do — the very 
simplest drug — just a prescription to enable the chemist to 
make up a bottle or a pill-box containing eight or nine hours 
of dreamless slumber. 

“ I really can’t bear it much longer,” she said, with eyes 
appealing and a pretty little mouth that began to tremble. 
“ Please help me. If it goes on, I think I may do something 
— dreadful.” 

Dr. Colbeck waved away this foolish threat with a gesture 
half-deprecating, half-reproving. Certainly he would help 
her: if not by doubtful drugs, by well-tried advice. That 
was his business. But she must tell him something more of 
her trouble. Then, while she babbled out the tale of her dis- 
tress, in childlike but somehow lovable abandonment of all 
reticence when once she had begun, he watched the pretty 
face and read it as though it had been a book. Weakness — 
clinging, yielding weakness; but kindness, innocence — one 
of those women meant for happiness, who are too fragile by 
nature to support the storms of life: flowers in the sunlight, 
but broken stems and tumbled petals when the storm-gust 
blows. 

“Yes, Dr. Colbeck,” she might, perhaps, have said, 
“ Look at me closely, for I am your Destiny.” 

The sleeplessness was an effect, as might be supposed, not 
a cause. The latent, chronic trouble was a dissolute, brutal 
husband. It was a commonplace but sad story. It made 
one’s heart glow with indignation to think of this poor, frail 
beauty in the clutch of a beast who would certainly never 
turn into a fairy prince. Only to hear of it from the pretty 
trembling lips made one long to save, to protect her. Rap- 
idly, inevitably drifting on, but with open eyes, knowing 
where chance was leading him, Dr. Colbeck became her 


The Ragged Messenger 


31 


specially retained consulting physician, her trusted friend, 
her trusted guide, her lover. There were difficulties at first 
which seemed terrible to her, but which Dr. Colbeck swept 
aside with the strong arm on which, he told her, she was 
henceforth to lqpn. The husband had deprived himself of 
all right of redress; nothing could clean his hands, or give 
them even a deceptive aspect of cleanness, if he ventured to 
come into court and hold them out for a jury to fill them 
with the price of his dishonor. But Dr. Colbeck gave him 
damages full and ample: not capitalized, but in form of an- 
nual income; bought his acquiescence and his silence, after a 
fair and well-considered bargain. What will you pay to 
escape a scandal ? What will you take to leave us alone ? 
She had asked for Dr. Colbeck’ s help, and this was how Dr. 
Colbeck helped her. She wanted the help at once, without 
delay. Having laid aside conventional methods, they could 
never resume them. In the eye of the law, in the eyes of a 
British jury, all the hands were dirty now. 

From the first it was a solid bond, no light tie to be broken 
as it had been made — by chance. He made her happy, and 
she filled his life — all of it that he could take from his work 
and his world — with her love. She gave him all that she 
had to give, and his gratitude grew with the passing years. 
In her little circle she lived in ease and contentment, the re- 
spected mistress of a pleasant house; with a numerous ac- 
quaintance, who wondered but asked no questions, and a few 
real friends who knew and who would not have answered the 
questions. Dr. Colbeck was her very old and valued friend, 
the executor of her late husband, probably! He was a con- 
stant and an honored guest. Never by a careless word, a 
slip of memory, or an unguarded intonation, did he give 
cause for any one to assume that he was host also. It was 
his harbor of refuge, but he crept into it by stealth; it was 
his secret haven of peace, and he enjoyed his solace with in- 
finite precaution. He owed her so much, and he paid his 
debt with a chivalrous exactness. 


32 


The Ragged Messenger 

Then, after many years, there happened that for which, at 
the back of his mind, without formulated thought, he had 
slowly prepared himself. The pensioned husband lay dying. 
Death was about to set her free. Colbeck was surprised 
when he realized how completely, if unconsciously, he had 
decided upon his course of action under these new conditions. 
He must make her his wife. How else could he pay his 
debt in full ? But he knew, struggling against the thought, 
driving it away at last, that only his gratitude now remained 
alive. She had given him her all, and it had not been 
enough! She was gentle and meek and loving, but she had 
never been a companion. Their worlds were different; their 
outlook on life was different: they had not, in truth, three 
thoughts in common. And now, after all the years of their 
intimacy, they were farther apart intellectually than in the 
beginning. She had moulded herself to her narrow sur- 
roundings, the fussy, good-natured friends, the gossip about 
people and things, the simple, brainless amusements of the 
snug little Bayswater home. It was too late in the day, 
probably, for her to adapt herself quickly to altered circum- 
stances. In legitimatizing her status, he would possibly for 
the first time make her feel that she was in a false position. 
Nevertheless, she quivered with joy when he hinted at his 
intention. There had been no promise on his side when 
they first came together; she could not have complained if 
he had left things as they were; but now, she told him, he 
had proved what she had always known him to be — the 
noblest and best of living men. 

Dr. Colbeck shrugged his shoulders when he thought of 
his fine friends and their fine houses. There would be no 
room at those glittering boards for her; he would cease to be 
a diner-out; he would make a discreet exit from what the 
snobs call the best society. Their exclusion would not cause 
him a moment’s regret if she refrained from repining; but, 
though he fought against it, dread filled his heart as he 
looked down the shadowy vista of the coming years and saw 


The Ragged Messenger 


33 


her and himself linked hand in hand till the vista closed in 
the darkness of death. 

But, in truth, that darkness was near at hand, and Death’s 
file was already at work in severing the fetters which Col- 
beck had worn for so long — while in the eyes of the world he 
had walked as a free man. Suddenly he learnt the truth, 
and was filled with sorrow and remorse as the knowledge 
came to him that an insidious and fatal disease had fastened 
upon her. Nothing could save her. The master-minds 
gathered round her bed could only echo the verdict of fate. 
He could but stand by, watching her glide out of existence, 
powerless to aid. This is the torment of a doctor’s life: to 
plainly see the progress of decay in his dear one, to recog- 
nize each phase of the ghastly work of annihilation, to know 
day by day what is coming — pain, pain, and still more pain, 
and to be impotent to shield, to ward off the cruel strokes. 

He went on with his work, after she had gone, dully and 
doggedly; but he did not recover from the shock of her 
death. He was weighed down by an unreasoning remorse. 
Brooding alone, late at night in his pleasant library, it 
seemed to him as though Death had answered his call; as 
though, summoned by a voiceless thought, he had sprung 
from the eternal shadows, knife in hand, to cut the knot that 
galled the poor cowardly mortal. Of a morning, riding early 
in the Park, he would see the white, tortured face looking at 
him with eyes that glowed and faded again in terrible re- 
proach. Did she know now ? Did she know of his vain and 
foolish dream as well as of his base and traitorous thought ? 
And as he rode slowly under the bare branches of the trees, 
thus thinking or dreaming, the figures of other horsemen, 
the white house-fronts, objects at a distance and things close 
at hand, seemed of a sudden to fade from substance to 
shadow, and he himself was a shadow riding in the midst of 
shadows. He would rouse himself, and ride homeward to 
begin his day’s work, and try to forget himself in the 
troubles of others. But in his consulting- room, sitting at his 

3 


34 


The Ragged Messenger 

desk, pen in hand, beneath the anxious scrutiny of a patient, 
an illusion of vagueness, the unreality of solid things would 
fall upon him, and while the patient watched and listened, 
he would be also listening to his own voice: following the 
words with almost painful intentness, wondering how the 
sentence was going to turn, surprised by each word as it 
was spoken. 

“ Only paying the penalty of overworking,” said his wise 
doctor friends, “ continued strain, lack of intervals for recu- 
peration. Nothing else! But you know, my dear Colbeck, 
as well as, — better than I do, that these are the common 
symptoms of — er — imminent break-down. I need not tell 
you that you must not delay applying to yourself the only 
remedy there is ’ ’ 

Unlike the majority of doctors, he was not panic-stricken 
when face to face with his own case. He smiled away such 
counsel. He was not going to break down. 

But gradually, though rapidly, he became a prey to an in- 
vincible weariness or depression of spirits. It was not that 
he was tired of his work, but his work was not worth doing. 
Analyzing his feelings, it seemed to him that he recognized 
that melancholy crisis which comes to many a lonely man in 
middle life; when he realizes the failure of his youthful 
hopes, and looks at the empty remnant of years that all his 
thwarted toil has left him. For what am I working, for 
whom, why? Dr. Colbeck, asking himself the question, 
could find no answer. He was a failure; he had done 
nothing. He had thought himself a hard-headed, practical 
workman, and really he had been a dreamer, a man self- 
pinioned by childish dreams and vague imaginings, standing 
on one spot, motionless, unseeing, letting all the world and 
its treasures glide by without grasping at, holding anything. 
What could time bring him now ? More money, when he 
already had more than enough for his own use. Sham 
honors, empty distinction — a few unearned compliments, a 
baronetcy one day as a fee for attending a prime minister or 


35 


The Ragged Messenger 

a prince: the rewards which the world grants finally to long- 
settled prosperity, not the enthusiastic recognition of real 
merit. As he thought of it, he saw himself old and lonely and 
worn out — Sir Anthony Colbeck, still dining out when any 
one asked him, rather deaf, rather irritable, telling old stories 
which nobody wanted to hear, cracking his stale old jokes 
and making people more inclined to cry than to laugh; by 
senile dulness of apprehension mercifully spared the knowl- 
edge that he was notorious as an unmitigated bore, and that 
all the world had to give him now was given — in pity. 

No, anything but that. Without seeking counsel from his 
colleagues, silently, hurriedly, Dr. Colbeck got rid of his 
house and most of his furniture; sold horses and carriages; 
made over his practice to a clever young man by a sale 
which in all but name was a gift; and fled from London 
and the Spirit of Sudden Sadness, on a tour round the 
world. 

A fortnight’s sea air blew away his cloud of melancholy, 
restored his elasticity of mind and body. In a month he was 
wondering why he had run away, and whether the wisest 
thing he could now do might not be to waste his passage 
money, and go back in the first homeward-bound ship. 


IV 

D R. COLBECK’ S flat was on the first floor of a new 
house in Maddox Street. They were comfortable and, 
for a flat, spacious rooms, but as yet nothing was in its place; 
all was confusion. The hall was full of packing-cases, con- 
taining odd bits of furniture saved from the wreck which he 
had himself made in Cavendish Square. His library, the 
biggest room, was littered with half- unpacked boxes and 
crates, pictures, curios, the spoil of his wanderings in many 
lands; half his books were on the shelves and half upon the 
floor. By the side of the fireplace stood five or six black tin 
boxes, which he had purchased just before he left England, 
and into which he had hastily thrust his private papers, let- 
ters, note-books, manuscripts — all the accumulation of the 
years, of those personal documents which men continue to 
guard under lock and key year after year, shrinking more 
and more from the labor of going carefully through them and 
then burning them. 

“ Will you be dining at home, sir?” asked the servant, 
drawing the curtains, and endeavoring to give a fictitious 
aspect of comfort in the midst of so much disorder. 

“No,” said Dr. Colbeck, “I shall dine at the club, I 
think. Get my things ready by half-past seven.” 

Sitting in a deep leather arm-chair, Dr. Colbeck drew to- 
wards him one of the deed boxes, and unlocked and opened 
it. He had taken the box at hazard, thinking that he might 
utilize the next hour by beginning the long-delayed work of 
destruction. At the top were a number of letters, each in its 

36 


The Ragged Messenger 


37 


original envelope and all in the same handwriting; and, as 
he threw back the japanned lid, it seemed to him that he had 
let out of the box vain regret, baffled longing, and jealous 
torment. 

They were all the letters that Lady Sarah Joyce had ever 
written to him. 

She had been almost a child when he first saw her: a tall 
slip of a girl with a pale face and large serious eyes, very 
silent and reserved, hiding herself, as it were, behind her 
elder sister, the well-developed and conversational Kmily. 
But he had drawn her out, made her talk to him in spite of 
her shyness while other guests were talking to the lively 
Emily; and almost immediately he had won her confidence. 

Patrington he had known slightly for years as an ill-fated or 
improvident man who, born to high position and considerable 
fortune, had without vice, without evil-doing, steadily squan- 
dered substance, influence, the consideration of the world. He 
was one of those men who begin well, of whom it is said that 
great things are expected. But at the age of twenty-five, as 
a minor member of the Government, Patrington had reached 
his zenith, and ever after his sun had been setting. He had 
patronized the turf, the drama; endeavored to develop his 
estate, and to found fashionable seaside resorts on barren 
cliffs and desolate beaches which possessed no other attrac- 
tion than that they were his property; he had made dis- 
astrous sales and ridiculous purchases, and gone briskly and 
fussily down hill all his days. Then, having in course of 
time mortgaged, sold, or frittered away everything except 
his splendid London house and the restricted and unassail- 
able income from trust funds, he had carried his coronet, his 
fatal energy, and disastrous industry into commercial specu- 
lation. He was well before the bad times of company-pro- 
moting, when peers were still welcome in the city, and when 
their names on a prospectus were alluring rather than repel- 
lant to the widow and orphan and other timid investors. By 
sheer luck, he had steered clear of disgrace among all his 


38 


The Ragged Messenger 

various and often hopeless enterprises; and, on the whole, 
had done better for himself in this last phase of his career 
than any one could have expected. Colbeck, making more 
money than he had leisure to invest, had thrown some of it 
down one of the Patrington sinks; had been persuaded to 
take a seat on a board; and had become intimate with his 
co-director. He had withdrawn when he made up his mind 
that his money had really disappeared, and had warned 
Patrington that it would be wise to leave the board room as 
speedily as possible. In the light of subsequent events, that 
nobleman saw how wise the advice had been, and henceforth 
nourished a high opinion of his friend’s far-seeing judgment. 

“Dear Dr. Colbeck, how good of you to give me the book.” 
That was an early letter. She interested him by all that she 
said. She was, as his eye detected, of a different fibre to her 
kind, a girl who thought for herself and who lived alone in 
the solitude of her own doubts and dreamings; but her sym- 
pathy with noble aims and high ambitions was surprisingly 
real, it seemed. “ My dear Dr. Colbeck, how kind you are, 
how very kind of you.” That was after performing some 
light task for her — to send a hospital ticket for a humble 
friend, or to advise her how she might best help one of her 
proteges. She was always doing good, it seemed to Dr. Col- 
beck : quietly, unobtrusively, under the unseeing eyes of her 
father and her sister. There was one letter in which she 
called him “ My dearest Dr. Colbeck.” It was here, in this 
box of foolish memories, but he would not look for it — he 
knew it by heart. He had come to the rescue of a poor 
family in whose fate L,ady Sarah had interested herself; had 
acted like a kind fairy; waving his golden wand, had sent 
the sick mother and her children away to the country in 
charge of a hospital nurse, and forced employment upon the 
troublesome father. I,ady Sarah going with her maid to the 
dark court, the little nest of penury and dirt hidden behind 
the decorous affluence of a Mayfair street, had found how 
her friend the doctor had realized her dream of what she 


39 


The Ragged Messenger 

would have done herself if some one had given her a magic 
purse; and had written in a burst of gratitude and called him 
her dearest. Gratitude — that was the keynote of all these 
early letters. She was grateful as a young girl is grateful to 
any man of mature age and distinguished reputation who 
will condescend to treat her not as a child, but as an equal in 
thought and intelligence. She was proud of their friendship, 
she often told him; honored by his considering her worthy 
to share his confidence, to hear his theories and speculations, 
to read his last article in the proofs, and to give her opinion 
on his views. Regard, esteem, and gratitude, expressed 
with childish enthusiasm — that was all. He was the kind, 
adopted uncle of the house in Park Lane, the useful friend 
that everybody could trust, to act as chaperon even, when, 
as often happened, my Lord Patrington was glad to evade 
his task — to take the young ladies to the theatre, or upon 
those wearisome expeditions which girls have a genius for 
devising, to see the things which every one owns they ought 
to see, but which no elder desires to see himself: the Tower, 
Greenwich, Kew Gardens, Hampton Court. 

One night, just after she had made her bow to her sov- 
ereign and when the Lady Emily was busily weaving the 
spell of her charms about the amiable Sir Richard Tyrrell, 
he was privileged to escort her alone to an Elizabethan 
masque produced by a society of amateurs in the Hall of the 
Middle Temple. 

It was a moonlit, windy night in February; and as they 
waited for the Patrington brougham, after the performance, 
he had wrapped her cloak about her neck and made her stand 
behind him, to guard her from the cold night air. She 
seemed, among the crowd of rather dowdy ladies, stout wives, 
and stubby daughters of the Law, a creature of another 
race: so tall and slender and gracious, so young but so self- 
possessed; and to his eyes beautiful exceedingly. 

Suddenly, as Lord Patrington’ s big horses carried them 
swiftly homeward along the Embankment, she clutched his 


40 


The Ragged Messenger 

arm and, pointing, asked in a breathless, frightened voice, 
“Those people? all those people? what are they waiting 
for ? ” 

On the moonlit but shadowy pavement, and in the gloom 
of the stone parapet, shivering men and women were pacing 
to and fro like sordid ghosts. Grim spectres of famine and 
pain they flitted in the moonlight or crouched in the shadow; 
huddled together on the bare benches, or wrapped themselves 
in their rags on the cold ground itself. 

“ They are not homeless ? ” gasped L,ady Sarah. “ They 
are not going to be there all night? ” 

“lam afraid they are,” said Dr. Colbeck, sadly. 

It had been a hard winter, and the ranks of the terrible 
army of the unemployed had been swollen week by week 
throughout a long frost. 

In a moment she was clinging to him in a passion of hys- 
terical tears. “Oh, it is wicked,” she sobbed — “blasphe- 
mous, awful ! ” The words came in gasps; he could hardly 
hear what she was saying; and while he tried to soothe her 
she clung to him with the desperate frenzy of a child who 
has been frightened almost to death. “How can we — can 
we — go by — and leave them there ? ’ ’ 

This was the burden of her sobbing words — The tragedy 
of life, the impious disparity of fortune, that men should ride 
in furs and sleep in warm beds while men lay starving in the 
streets. Surely it could not be suffered! He soothed her, as 
one soothes a child. The night was young yet; messengers 
of charity would be going their rounds soon ; many would be 
taken to shelters; for the rest fires would be kindled, food 
would be brought — yes, yes, good, hot soup — and blankets, 
yes, very likely. His arm was round her; she lay sobbing 
on his shoulder. He smoothed the soft dark hair, soothing 
and lying as though to a little child; and loving her, loving 
her — as he told himself — for her passionate sympathy, for the 
heart which could feel, for the brain which could understand. 
Stooping over the tin box Dr. Colbeck, lost in thought, sat 


4i 


The Ragged Messenger 

looking at the letters. Here was a newspaper: one of those 
journals of feminine fashion which are not to be found where 
men congregate. It contained her portrait. “ Some beauti- 
ful debutantes ; Lady Sarah Joyce.” He had seen the sheet 
in a shop window— had bought a copy, and treasured it. 
Turning the pages he looked again at the picture, and 
thought of her in those days. She had gone about, after 
Lady Emily’s marriage, during one season, under the wing 
of her frivolous Aunt Kate. She had been much admired; 
but, as Lady Tollhurst said, nothing had come of it. He had 
stood in crowded doorways at London dances, and watched 
her: pleased when idle words of praise not meant for his ear 
were spoken at his elbow, angry when some envious dowager 
made light of her attractions; and, looking round from face 
to face, he had seen no man worthy of her. Then, as with 
some Captain Splendid or Lord Magnificent she swept by, 
radiant and smiling, she would give him a smile also. And, 
as that was all he had come for, he would go away contented. 
But on two occasions she had disengaged herself, easily, 
graciously, as she did everything, from a little group of 
splendid vacuousness and noble imbecility, and had sailed to 
his side. 

“ No, no,” he pleaded, smiling. “ You must not let an 
old fogey like me take you in to supper.” 

“You are not an old fogey,” and the gloved hand was on 
his arm; “ you are the cleverest man in the room, and you 
are going to take me down to supper, or I am not going to 
sup at all.” 

Here were the little notes of that period. “ If I don’t see 
you at Lady Beverley’s to-morrow I shall be dreadfully dis- 
appointed. I have heaps of things to ask you about.” In 
pencil or ink, a few hurried words or a long letter — all kept, 
all treasured — “ Your article in the Nineteeyitli Ce7itury is 
worthy of yourself. The Duchess has sent you a card for 
Tuesday and wants you to come just as much as I do. So 
no excuses, please.” 


42 


The Ragged Messenger 

Out of such trifling materials he had built the fabric of his 
foolish dream, the sentimental phantasy of what might have 
been. A whole book of dreams it became as years passed; 
the pages of which he turned in his mind unconsciously. 
Put into words, it was the old formula of childhood: — Sup- 
pose and suppose. Suppose he had been free, suppose there 
had not been that other woman. Suppose he had beaten down 
her old esteem and regard and told her boldly, “ I want your 
love. Laugh at me, pity me for my monstrous presumption, 
treat me as you would a man in the street who has insulted 
you, but don’t think you can laugh me out of your life, or si- 
lence me with cold glances. Think of it, think of it — think 
what my love must be when you see me — }^our grave-faced, 
middle-aged friend — distraught, raving at your feet in the 
torment of my longing for you.” That was how the man in 
the dream-book talked to her: caring not if her love should 
spring from pity, if she gave herself in charity, in self-sacri- 
fice, so that he might win her: imploring, praying, threaten- 
ing; without shame, without mercy, blind to all but the 
winning of her. 

Suppose, said the saner pages of his dream, that, inacces- 
sible as she is now, time brings her nearer; that fate is 
working for you; that every year she remains unmarried 
your chance is less remote; that already her regard is tinged 
with tenderness; that when no longer a girl, but to you 
dearer than ever, some happy chance may set her imagina- 
tion on fire and that her heart may kindle. More wonderful 
things have happened. Young girls have loved old men ere 
now. 

Dreaming through the drowsy hours on shipboard, bronzed 
and strong and vigorous again, feeling that he was free with 
half a life before him, he called upon Fate to work the 
miracle of his desire; and had come home determined to tell 
her of his love. 

Walking about his room, staring into the fire, sitting down 
and rising again, he thought now with intolerable pain of 


The Ragged Messenger 


43 


the knavish trick which Fate had played him. The golden 
chance had been given to another. Why could not he have 
saved her life ? He would have given ten lives to save her. 

He could understand how the clap-trap of such a man as 
this would enchain her mind. To her who had made him a 
hero from the first, his wild raving must have seemed the 
echo of her own heart-beats — the answer to her child-like 
sympathy with all who suffered and were oppressed. The 
bedlam doctrine of universal brotherhood, community of 
goods, the boundless charity of the gospels — or whatever 
might be his stale repetition of an old cry — doubtless to her 
had seemed a trumpet call to the wide world. She had been 
swept away on a tide of emotion. How far had the wave 
carried her ? Toving the wild words, had she drifted on to 
love of their wild speaker. Surely this cursed thing had not 
happened. Surely the proud reticence of her nature, that 
inner saving grace which holds such women’s hearts in 
prison walls of self-respect, still kept watch and ward. She 
could not thus lightly, hysterically, madly have given her 
love. 

Dr. Colbeck dined alone at the Athenaeum. As he walked 
down to the club, that old contrast between the splendor and 
misery of life unrolled itself before him. Only in London of 
all the cities of the world, do the vivid street pictures tell 
their story in such crude and violent colors. In the strong 
light of the shop windows in Bond Street — the home of lux- 
ury — he met the gaunt faces of hopeless misery. Work girls, 
consumptive, with pinched lips, underclad, underfed, death- 
marked slaves issuing from the hot cellars of the shops, hur- 
rying away through the damp mist, spattered by the mud 
from the carriage wheels of the slave-drivers. Hollow-eyed, 
hollow-cheeked men wandering aimless, helpless, hopeless — 
without bread to eat or a roof to cover them — peering through 
the plate glass at glittering jewels or costly bric-h-brac, and 
slinking away as in shame when a well-dressed loiterer paused 


44 


The Ragged Messenger 

beside them. In Piccadilly, restaurants with gold-laced 
giants holding the doors for the incoming stream of delicate 
feeders, women in diamonds, men in furs, while the police- 
men harry the child who is questing for a crust in the gutter. 
Painted cheeks and burning fever in aching bones; the 
nightly traffic of the pavement in full market assembled, 
within sound of the church organ, within sight of the Mar- 
tyr’s symbol. Lust chinking his purse and chaffering, while 
Famine trembles lest she fail to sell her body. 

Yes, one could understand how the frenzied appeal for the 
righting of the wrong, the setting the world in order and be- 
ginning again in the spirit of Christian charity, can never 
fail to stir the strings of pity in all gentle hearts. If one 
could cure it — the unendurable pain of humanity: the pain 
that is pain to think of ! 

At a corner house in St. James’s Square, liveried servants 
were rolling a red carpet; the open door showed electric 
lamps with amber shades, banks of hot-house flowers, a 
marble staircase, a crimson curtain. Out of the darkness, 
drawn by the beam of yellow light, three hideous spectres of 
the night had come limping and crouching to peer at the 
great ones of the earth as they entered the open door. As 
Colbeck passed, he saw their faces — two males and a woman 
— the obscene birds that hover round public-house doors 
when night has fallen — most horrible in their degradation, 
appalling in the complete defacement of the human type 
wrought by drink and disease and despair, those three ham- 
mers used by men to beat out the image of their Creator. 

Indubitably such living texts as these can give a spell to 
the ranting cry of men like Morton. “You all see these 
things. How long will you suffer them to continue in your 
sight ? Listen to me, do as I bid you, and the world shall 
be made clean again.” 

At the table next to his, in the comfortable club-room, 
there was a man whom he knew slightly. It was a certain 
Canon West-Graham, a well-known London cleric: one of 


45 


The Ragged Messenger 

those prosperous priests of whom it is always said in the 
newspapers that they are on the point of being offered a 
bishopric, but who, themselves, have no desire for so onerous 
a distinction. 

“ Do I know him?” said the Canon towards the end of 
dinner, and his red cheeks relaxed in a fat smile. “ Do I 
not to my cost? ” 

There was a bottle of Burgundy lying in a cradle or 
basket, and the Canon said no more until with a slow and 
cautious hand he had refilled his glass. 

“ I am a busy man as you may guess, and I don’t readily 
forgive people who waste my time. Well, Morton wrote to 
me once asking for an explanation of a passage in one of my 
sermons, delivered at St. Paul’s. I answered briefly, but 
with scrupulous civility, and he has never let me alone since: 
bombards me with pamphlets, and letters, often abusive, al- 
ways impudent. Really, if you ask me, a most pestilential 
fellow. Mad, of course, but not quite mad enough to shut 
up — worse luck for everybody.” . . . 

“ Unorthodox, do you say ? My dear sir,” and the Canon 
smiled. “ Many of us are that. But he goes beyond, be- 
yond, don’t 3'ou know. Oh, a very dangerous man I con- 
sider him. Has it ever struck you that in many points, little 
details of management, this club is not quite what it was ? 
You are not on the wine committee, by chance, are you? ” 

Dr. Colbeck was not on the wine committee, but he lent a 
polite ear to a rather lengthy grumble, and then, drawing the 
Canon back to the matter of the pestilential fellow, asked for 
further information. 

“ It is not mere curiosity. I have a reason for wanting to 
pick up any facts as to his career.” 

Then, seeming somewhat bored at first, but gradually 
warming to his subject and, as it appeared to Dr. Colbeck, 
lashing himself into more indignation than perhaps he really 
felt, — as though from esprit de corps rather than personal re- 
sentment, — the Canon sketched Mr. Morton’s history. 


4 6 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ He became notorious ten — nay, fifteen years ago. Was 
incumbent of the Dover Street Chapel and had a vogue— oh, 
yes, a distinct vogue, for what are termed * awakening * ser- 
mons. He awoke his Bishop anyhow; was warned, again 
and again, that there must be a limit to the license which in 
our Church is extended — wisely extended, as I think — to 
personal freedom of thought. Great indulgence — perhaps 
too much indulgence — was granted; but nothing would make 
him listen to reason, and at last there was no alternative but 
strong measures. 

“ There was a grave scandal. In the pulpit and in his 
pamphlets he persisted in treating marriage as one of the 
sacraments of the Church. Well, as you know, of course it 
is n’t.” And the Canon puffed out his cheeks contemptu- 
ously as though speaking as a man of the world of some 
social solecism. 

“ It is n’t. Any choir boy knows that, and here was this 
fellow setting himself against all authority and saying, ‘ I 
tell you it is.’ Another vexatious doctrine, which caused 
endless trouble, was his insistence on the belief in a personal 
detfil.” , 

‘ ‘ Is that also unorthodox ? ’ * 

‘‘Well — er — perhaps not. But it is very old-fashioned,” 
and the Canon smiled and then became serious, looking at 
the wine in his glass reflectively. “ If our Church is to re- 
tain its vitality, it has been felt by our deepest thinkers that 
she must move with the march of modern thought. The 
devil of our fathers, the personified power of evil, has un- 
doubtedly proved a stumbling-block, and has very generally 
been — shelved, don’t you know.” 

“Oh,” said Dr. Colbeck 

‘ ‘ But be that as it may. This Morton precipitated matters 
and brought about his removal by an incredibly scandalous 
outbreak. It was a fashionable congregation, and among 
the occasional communicants were smart folk whose lives were 
no purer — doubtless and unhappily — than the lives of such 


The Ragged Messenger 


47 


butterflies of the world often are. Well, then, at the mid- 
day celebration, he outrageously drove them from the altar 
rails — denounced them as children of the devil — money- 
changers. Positively, drove them away, impiously quoting 
those Divine words about turning the house of prayer into 
a den of thieves. After that, don’t you know.” 

The Canon shrugged his ample shoulders and replenished 
his glass. 

“ Since then he has continued to be a thorn in our sides. 
A firebrand, a brawler. He has, with that other misguided 
man, attempted to interfere with the marriage of divorced 
persons and created disturbances in half the churches in 
England. His letters to the press are a gross abuse of that 
mighty but ill-regulated engine of modern life — sensational, 
mischievous. ’ ’ 

“ But the man himself? His private character for 
instance? ” 

“ I have never met him, I am thankful to say. But I be- 
lieve — it is a thing I don’t vouch for, a thing one is loth to 
circulate about any man, but I believe I am right in saying 
that he has more than once been in prison.” 

“ For what offence? ” 

“ Causing unruly crowds to assemble in the public streets. 
He preaches in the open street, you know. But, really and 
truly, what we say is unpardonable; what we all feel and what 
makes us so indignant, is this: In his sermons and his let- 
ters there has always been a most insufferable assumption of 
authority — what appears to me a most blasphemous sugges- 
tion — or comparison — between himself ” 

The Canon with a dessert spoon was carefully removing 
an atom of floating matter from the red wine in his glass 
and, becoming engrossed in the task, paused. 

Dr. Colbeck was thinking of Eady Sarah’s far-away look 
and her low- voiced reply: 

” I admire him more than anybody I have ever known, 
and as much almost as anybody I have ever read of. ’ ’ 


48 


The Ragged Messenger 

“What was I saying? Oh, ah, yes,” and the Canon 
puffed out his cheeks and continued in a lower tone: “ By 
all this he has, they tell me, earned for himself, and is, indeed, 
generally known by, the terrible sobriquet of the Mad Mes- 
siah. Could anything be more calculated to bring religion 
into disrepute ? 

“ I wonder,” said Canon West-Graham blandly, when the 
waiter had pulled away his table, “if you would care to play 
me a game of billiards. I am the poorest of players, but I 
find the gentle exercise of the game both pleasant and valu- 
able after my evening meal.” 

But Dr. Colbeck was not a billiard-player, and the Canon, 
looking very disappointed, went to the drawing-room in 
search of an opponent. 


V 


T HK cheerful sunlight was pouring into the room in Park 
hane, striking out gay notes of color from the pretty 
chintz covers, flickering on the polished surface of porcelain 
and bronze, sinking to rest in the mellow depths of the pic- 
tures on the walls. It was a bright and inviting afternoon. 
Not the sort of weather to squander indoors, thought L,ady 
Tollhurst, growing more and more restless. 

“ Why don’t he come ? How much longer are we to give 
him, Dr. Colbeck ? It makes one so nervous — waiting. Do 
you know, Patrington, if he don’t turn up in ten minutes, I 
really must make a bolt of it. I ’ll come back when it ’s all 
over. ’ ’ 

There was a sound of footsteps. 

“ No, no,” said Tord Patrington, “ stay by me. Here he 
comes. ’ ’ 

The door opened and the servant announced: 

“ Mr. Carpenter.” 

“ Only my scheming cousin! ” said L,ord Patrington, in a 
tone that carried some irritation and a certain sense of relief. 

“I dread Herbert,” said Tady Tollhurst. “He always 
wants something.” 

Mr. Herbert Carpenter was a tall, pale man of about thirty- 
five, with sandy hair and a languid manner. He came into 
the room slowly and languidly, carrying a big roll of papers 
under his arm. He shook hands with his relatives and then 
laid down his papers upon the nearest chair. 

“ Passing,” said Mr. Carpenter, “ so I looked in.” 


5 ° 


The Ragged Messenger 

“That’s too thin, Bertie,” said Eady Tollhurst; “we 
know you. You want something.” 

“ A cup of tea, possibly,” and he glanced inquiringly to- 
wards Colbeck. “Am I disturbing you? You all look 
painfully serious.” 

“ This,” said Eord Patrington, “is Dr. Colbeck, the emi- 
nent physician. And this is Mr. Carpenter,” — with a smile, 
— “the great architect.” 

“The student, he means,” said Mr. Carpenter, languidly; 
then, “ How d’ye do ? ” with a casual nod. 

Dr. Colbeck had known him for years, more or less. Mr. 
Carpenter was the sort of man who greets you on some days 
and ignores you on others. Colbeck perhaps unjustly classed 
him as a type which he greatly disliked: the well-born ama- 
teur who seems to have all the vaporings of the artist and 
the swagger of the man of fashion; one of those people who 
without performance insidiously assume reputation; who write 
long letters to the Times and sign their names in full, instead 
of calling themselves “ Puzzled,” “ Nonentity,” or “ Rien- 
du-tout .” 

“ Has not the time come to build a National Theatre ? Are 
we adequately to restore our noble old Abbey or permit it to 
crumble into dust as the sands slip through the glass of 
time ? Will no one aid in removing this eye-sore and erect- 
ing in its place a Palace of Industry worthy of our Empire ? 
That, sir, is the question asked by yours, etc. Herbert 
Carpenter.” 

“ Well! ” said Lord Patrington, “ what is it? What can 
I do for you? ” 

“ You really are clairvoyant,” said Mr. Carpenter. 

“ No, you are transparent,” said Eady Tollhurst, sharply. 

“ It is a fact that I have an idea, which I want to submit 
to you — and — ’ ’ looking at Dr. Colbeck — ‘ ‘ any other in- 
fluential man I can find.” 

“ Oh, I can’t help you,” said Eord Patrington. 

The servant opened the door. 


5i 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Don’t say that,” pleaded Mr. Carpenter, going to his 
bundle of papers. “ It is so dispiriting to be told ” 

“Mr. Morton, — Mr. Bigland,” said the servant at the door. 

Immediately upon the servant’s announcement, the Rev- 
erend John Morton came into the sunlit room. He was a 
thin, spare man, looking older than his real age, thought 
Dr. Colbeck — forty-five, as a guess, but looking over fifty — 
a man of very strong, though slight frame; and of great 
vitality and nervous power. He wore his black coat but- 
toned, and his clothes, if not quite the ordinary clerical attire 
and very shabby and threadbare, would nevertheless have 
told one that he was a clergyman. His companion was a 
mild and foolish-looking old man, who now stood waiting 
by the door. 

“ Iyord Patrington, I want to present my faithful fol- 
lower,” and Mr. Morton beckoned, and Mr. Bigland came 
forward shyly and bowed. 

“You called just now,” said Dord Patrington, nodding 
to the bowing visitor, “and this morning also? ” 

“ No, my lord,” said Mr. Bigland, “ I came with a mes- 
sage yesterday — not to-day, my lord.” 

“ Well, there was somebody here for you,” said Lord Pat- 
rington, turning to Morton. “ One of your people has been 
here twice to-day.” 

“ I ventured to give this address at my lodgings, in case 
of need.” 

“ Oh, yes. Quite so. I*et me introduce you. Mr. Mor- 
ton — Dr. Colbeck.” 

Dr. Colbeck bowed but did not offer his hand. 

Broad high forehead, from which the grizzled hair grew 
close and strong; a dull olive skin to which the blood came 
in a dusky glow round the rather salient cheek bones; thin 
nose, broad nostrils, thick eyebrows, and prominent eyes of 
a brownish gray — the speckled eye color of the type — eyes 
that seemed dull and sleepy till they flashed or glowed; 
with force behind the brow and courage in the chin: the 


52 


The Ragged Messenger 

typical face of the fanatic, thought Dr. Colbeck, intently 
scrutinizing — the fanatic of all ages and nearly all races. A 
self-deceiver, not a common charlatan ! 

“ kady Sarah has something for this good fellow to take 
away — some books,” said Morton. 

“ Oh, yes. Over there.” 

kord Patrington pointed to the bureau and Mr. Bigland 
went across, and drawing a piece of string from his pocket, 
began to tie the books together. 

“I am proud of him,” said Morton, watching the old 
fellow as he fumbled with the string. 

“ Really! ” said L,ord Patrington; “ may I ask why ? ” 

“ Because he is, perhaps, the only real convert I ever 
made.” 

“ Oh, indeed.” 

‘ ‘ I was preaching one night, two years ago, and he heard 
me. He went away; sold his shop and all that he had; and 
followed me.” 

Mr. Bigland, putting the books under his arm, turned 
quickly, and came towards them. 

“ It was a call. I had to follow him.” 

Morton gave him an affectionate glance of encouragement 
or approval. 

“ That is faith. He might have lived in the beginning of 
our era, might n’t he, Patrington ? ” 

“ May I,” asked Dr. Colbeck, addressing Mr. Bigland 
with excessive suavity, “ inquire the character of your shop, 
sir?” 

“ The tobacco and newspapers, sir.” 

“ Remunerative trade? ” 

“ Profits swallowed by bad debts.” 

“ In your case? ” 

“ Hard struggle to keep solvent, sir. When all was 
cleared, I had only ten pounds odd to carry to him.” 

Morton laid his hand on his follower’s shoulder, and gave 
it a friendly pat. 


53 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ If there had been hundreds you would have brought 
them.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Bigland, simply. 

“So now, you see, he helps me,” said Morton, with a 
change of tone, as he turned to Colbeck. 

“ How?” 

“We share a little sitting-room in a big house — high 
above the smoke. Not so pretty a room as this.” 

Mr. Bigland laughed and echoed the words. 

“ No. Not so pretty a room as this.” 

“ But with a fine view over the fields of roofs and chimney- 
pots. ’ ’ 

“ Grand! ” said Mr. Bigland. 

Mr. Carpenter had been whispering to Lady Tollhurst, 
but now both of them were listening — Mr. Carpenter balanc- 
ing his roll of papers and giving a languid attention, Lady 
Tollhurst leaning forward in her chair eager to catch each 
syllable. 

“ A good enough room for us to fly our kites from, eh, 
Bigland? ” 

“You don’t mean,” said Colbeck, “that you fly kites ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Over the roofs of the houses ? ” 

“ Yes. Over the house-tops and over the roof of the world 
— when the wind serves. So that people thousands of miles 
away — the trader toiling up country from the coast, and the 
Rajah lolling in his gilded howdah may look up and see the 
paper message floating in the sky.” 

“Oh!” said Dr. Colbeck, blankly. 

With a nod of the head and a good-humored smile Morton 
turned towards the windows. 

“You don’t understand,” said Mr. Bigland, chuckling 
complacently. 

“No, I don’t.” 

“ It ’s his teaching, his message to the world — little signals 
of hope, words of comfort, bits cut out of his sermons, that 


54 


The Ragged Messenger 

we get printed and sent everywhere, from pole to pole, in 
open envelopes. / attend to it. Sent over a hundred thou- 
sand last quarter. That ’s what we call kite-flying.” 

“ I won’t say what / call it,” said Colbeck, in a confiden- 
tial whisper to Lady Tollhurst. 

“ Good day, my lord,” said Mr. Bigland at the door, bow- 
ing low. “ Good day, madam.” 

“ As good as a play,” whispered Lady Tollhurst, “ but for 
the anxiety. Did n’t I say he was unique ? But he ignores 
one, don’t you know,” and she rose from her chair. 

“ Mr. Morton,” she said, with dignified playfulness, 
“ please don’t pretend that you have forgotten me.” 

Mr. Morton, shaking hands, looked puzzled. 

“ At Lady Barker’s luncheon party,” said Lady Tollhurst, 
prompting him. 

“ The wife of the Bishop of Winchboro? ” 

“Certainly not. Old frump! I am Lady Tollhurst. I 
sat next you.” 

“Yes, yes. I have been wondering ever since ” 

“What, pray?” 

“ Why Lady Barker invited me. I did n’t know her.” 

“ That was the reason. She wanted to know you.” 

Lady Tollhurst had been slightly ruffled in demeanor by 
the incredible fact that her personality should have been for- 
gotten, or confounded with that of a most dowdy and alto- 
gether unattractive old dame. But the blunderer was plainly 
unconscious of the tactless offence that he had committed. 

“ That was put on,” she said to Dr. Colbeck. “ He can’t 
have really forgotten me.” 

“ A most patent affectation! ” said Dr. Colbeck, cynically. 

He was observing Morton closely. There was a restless- 
ness about the man, a suppressed excitement which showed 
itself in rapid movements of hands and head. He turned to 
and fro with quick glances towards the big doors; picked up 
a book, and laid it down without looking at it. Patrington, 
as though shirking the coming discussion, seemed to avoid 


55 


The Ragged Messenger 

giving him an opportunity to begin; and, almost slinking 
about the room, had worked his way to one of the windows 
and turned his back. Now Morton had followed him. 

“I hoped to find Lady Sarah here. I have something 
important to ask you.” 

“She ’ll be here directly. She ’s out, I fancy. She is 
coming back, I know,” and Lord Patrington pulled himself 
together. “ But need we wait for her? ” 

“ I would rather. It nearly concerns her.” 

“Oh, well ” 

“ It is a great favor — but I hope she will grant it.” 

There was an embarrassed silence. The presence of the 
architect cousin increased the awkwardness of the situation. 
Dr. Colbeck wondered if from childhood’s earliest hour it had 
ever occurred to Mr. Herbert Carpenter that, being in the 
way, it would be a graceful act for him to get out of it. 
Evidently it had not occurred to him on this occasion. 

In the pause which nobody seemed able to fill with con- 
versation he had cleared some photograph frames and silver 
boxes from a table, and drawn it away from the wall. Then, 
undoing a bow of pink tape, he had unfurled his papers and 
spread them out, putting books and pen-trays on the corners 
to keep them down. Now he had brought a couple of 
chairs to the table as though inviting guests, and was stand- 
ing behind the table, like a lecturer only waiting for his 
audience to take their seats. 

“What on earth are you doing, Bertie?” asked Lady 
Tollhurst. 

“ This is my little scheme. Do look.” 

And he pointed down with a gold pencil-case at the product 
of his artistic labors, and began to turn the sheets of stiff 
white paper, showing architectural drawings in pencil and 
water-color; and architect’s plans, most extensive and in- 
tricate in the map-like web of Indian ink and rule-and- 
compass work. 

“ What ’s it meant for ? ” asked Lady Tollhurst, glancing 


56 The Ragged Messenger 

at a pretty sketch of towers and pinnacles and buttressed 
windows. 

“ What is it ? A palace ? ” 

“ Town hall?” asked Lord Patrington, glancing also. 

‘ ‘ Hospital ? ’ ’ suggested Dr. Colbeck. 

“ No, it ’s a refuge.” 

“ What for?” asked Lady Tollhurst. 

“ Fallen women.” 

“ There! What did I say ? ” cried Lady Tollhurst. “ I 
told you it was the fashion. Bertie is always up with the 
times.” 

Morton had been standing in the window, looking down 
into the roadway. He had turned to listen when Carpenter 
said the word “ refuge”; and now he was about to join the 
little group at the table when Colbeck intercepted him. 

“ I have been hearing much about your — ideas, Mr. Mor- 
ton. What Lady Sarah said greatly interested me.” 

“Yes.” 

“ I have been out of England — that is one of my excuses 
for being rather ignorant of — your teaching.” 

“ My teaching? ” 

“ I mean — to what you particularly address yourself.” 

“ To what every wise teacher should address himself.” 

“And that is?” 

‘ 1 All that part of the lesson set by the master which the 
scholars have forgotten. ’ ’ 

“ Um! That ’s rather a dark saying, Mr. Morton.” 

Had he tried never so hard to do so, Colbeck could not 
have entirely concealed the antagonist beneath the polite in- 
quirer who talks only to make himself polite and agreeable. 
But it seemed that Morton understood him and his mental 
attitude very accurately; as though he had understood him 
intuitively from the moment of their introduction. His face 
became grave and his eyes seemed to steady themselves, re- 
turning scrutiny for scrutiny, each time that Colbeck spoke 
to him. And Colbeck had the sudden perception that in this 


The Ragged Messenger 


57 


brief duel, the struggle to read each other’s thoughts, the 
honors had not been his. Yet he liked the man the better 
for it. Something from behind the steady eyes, at once 
childlike and virile, seemed to plead for justice and to scorn 
misconstruction . 

‘ ‘ At least look through them — before you decide against, ’ * 
Mr. Carpenter was urging. 

“ Well, well,” and Lord Patrington sat down and adjusted 
his eye-glasses. “ What is this precious scheme ? ” 

“ It is a dream that I want to come true.” 

“You shouldn’t dream about fallen women,” and Lord 
Patrington laughed as he turned over the drawings. 

“You see,” said Mr. Carpenter, “it’s a square with a 
garden in the middle — Italian,” and his pencil travelled 
about the paper, ‘ ‘ dormitories, refectories, chapel, cloisters, 
fish-pond.” 

“ Covers a lot of ground,” said Lord Patrington. 

“The garden court is nearly one acre.” 

“ Where will you find the ground ? ” 

“ We have found it — bought it — in Lennox Street.” 

“How much?” 

“ A hundred and twenty thousand pounds.” 

“ Oh, don’t stint yourself. I could sell you land in Suffolk 
for fifteen pounds an acre. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ It was a necessity to secure a site in the midst of this 
horrible London.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because it is there that the work must be done — where 
these poor women are. It is known to be wisest to — to ’ ’ 

“To keep your ambulance on the battle-field,” said Morton 
from the window, ‘ ‘ and not miles away. ’ ’ 

“ That is exactly the idea. Thanks! ” and Mr. Carpenter 
looked over his shoulder and then continued: “ You see the 
scheme. A wretched woman falters and sinks in her in- 
famous life. The sisters are down upon her. She is whisked 
from the mire, and the roar, and the flaring gas lamps, 


58 


The Ragged Messenger 

through that little postern” — pointing with his pencil — “ into 
a haven of peace and beauty. She rubs her poor worn eyes 
and gasps with joy. Silence and peace — the tinkling of the 
chapel bell; the rescued pacing slowly nearer God, along the 
cloisters! Flowers in bloom and the shade of the blossoming 
trees. Every lintel of the doors, every member of the carved 
roof speaking to her of perfect and faultless Art. For I 
think I may say, without vanity, that she ’ll find it deuced 
hard work to pick holes in the architectural design.” 

‘ ‘ How much is the building to cost ? ’ ’ asked Ford Pat- 
rington curtly. 

“ I call it the House of the Woman of Samaria.” 

“How much?” 

“ Well, I have n’t taken out quantities. I have only 
roughly cubed it.” 

“Well?” 

“ Well, that comes to something getting on for half a 
million.” 

Lord Patrington pushed his chair back from the table and 
got up, with a contemptuous laugh. 

“You really amuse me, Bertie.” 

“ What does that work out per cubic foot ? ” asked Morton, 
coming from the window. 

“Eh? Are you up in this sort of thing?” said Mr. Car- 
penter; “ about eighteenpence ” 

“ Too much. Too much. You will have to overboard 
your ornaments.” 

“ My dear sir,” said Mr. Carpenter with a languid wave 
of his arm. “ Don’t you think beauty counts for anything? ” 

“Everything — sometimes,” said Morton, slowly, “the 
staircase which leads us to Heaven, and the barrier which 
shuts us out when we reach the top.” He had taken the 
chair vacated by Eord Patrington, and he looked up with a 
slyly humorous glance. “ There ’s another dark saying for 
you, Doctor.” 

“ Thanks,” said Colbeck. 


59 


The Ragged Messenger 

But, Mr. Carpenter, if I am bearing a loaf to a hungry 
man, shall I stay till I find a Dresden plate?” 

“Yes, yes, of course — but ” 

“Now, perhaps, you ’ll tell me, Bertie,” said Lord Pat- 
rington, “ who put all this moonshine into your head.” 

“ My own idea.” 

“ What do you think you are going to get out of it ? ” 

“ My dear Patrington, your notions are sordid.” 

“Perhaps. Well, what?” 

“ Five per cent, would be the architect’s commission if it 
ever ” 

“ On half a million! That ’s twenty-five thousand pounds. 
Wish you may get it! ” 

“The laborer is worthy of his hire,” said Morton, de- 
precatingly. He was holding a drawing in his hands and 
studying it attentively. “ You forget, Patrington, that such 
a job would mean an office and twenty skilled clerks hard at 
work for months on detailed drawings, tracings — five per 
cent, on such a job leaves no great profit.” 

“ My dear sir,” said the architect with animation, “ you 
do know something about it. I don’t deny I have the selfish 
hope of fame, but the work is good.” 

“ I like your dream,” said Morton, slowly, “ I like your 
dream.” 

“ In my profession,” Mr. Bertie continued, with something 
like enthusiasm, “ such a work is the chance of a lifetime. 
There are no cathedrals to build nowadays. I own I want 
to do it.” 

“ I don’t doubt you,” said Ford Patrington. 

“ And this is where we are at the moment. We have 
had noble help. We have collected two thousand towards 
the deposit for the ground — freehold, remember — and we 
are in danger of forfeiting our contract. Don’t let us do 
that.” 

“ I can’t help you,” said Lord Patrington. 

“ My idea is this. If half a dozen different bodies of men 


6o 


The Ragged Messenger 

would help, we could do it. Iudividually, a trifle each — I 
begin with the peers — fifty guineas each.” 

“Go on — keep it up — ” and Lord Patrington laughed 
again, while Mr. Carpenter looked hard at Dr. Colbeck. 

“ Medical men. Ten guineas each.” 

“Ten guineas,” said Colbeck, cheerily, “from every 
practising doctor. Why not ? * ’ 

“ Thanks immensely.” 

“ Oh! I ’m not practising. I have retired.” 

“ Let me,” said Lord Patrington, sternly, “ answer for my 
order. Emphatically — No!” 

Morton rose and laid his hand upon Lord Patrington’ s 
shoulder, speaking in tones of affectionate expostulation. 

“ Why not give it to him, Patrington? Do, like a dear 
fellow. You can afford it.” 

Lord Patrington turned upon him, angrily. 

“ No, sir, I cannot! ” 

“ Look round you. Can you miss it ? ” 

“ No doubt,” said Lord Patrington, with great irritation, 
“ no doubt you think me a rich man.” 

“ I see evidences of wealth.” 

“ You ’d see evidences of confounded poverty if you knew 
the world.” 

“ But I flatter myself I do,” said Morton, mildly. 

“You may know the East End,” said Patrington, warmly, 
“but when you come to speak about us — my good sir, you 
show your innocence.” 

“Do I?” 

“You see a man in a fine house, and — er — in a great 
position. You don’t think of the duties ” 

“ In every position there are duties.” 

“ In mine — necessities.” 

“ I can guess them,” and Morton smiled good-humoredly, 
“ but I can’t see the pinch of poverty. Powdered foot- 
men ’ ’ 

“ All short — country lads on low wages.” 


6i 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Splendid horses.” 

“Jobbed.” 

‘ ‘ Golden harness. ’ ’ 

“ Brass — and worn out. My coachman said we must have 
new sets two years ago. He has n’t had ’em yet. It ’s the 
same in everything. It stares at you, if you could see it. 
Colbeck knows.” 

Dr. Colbeck shook his head doubtfully. 

Morton had fixed his eyes on Colbeck’ s face, waiting for 
the words of confirmation sought by his lordship. The gray 
eyes seemed to light up in unexpected pleasure at the sign 
of dubious negation, and he smiled at Colbeck with a sudden 
assumption of complete and unreserved friendliness. 

“Look here,” and Lord Patrington continued volubly — 
“look at the carpets — put down in my mother’s time — 
threadbare. The walls. Do they want painting? When 
Sarah gives a party, all London sees it. Ask Lady Toll- 
hurst. Refreshments at five shillings a head. My heart is 
in my boots as I approach the buffet.” Then, very sternly, 
“ I have n’t known what it was to have fifty pounds to waste 
— no, not for twenty years.” 

“ Would this be waste? ” said Morton, deprecatingly. 

“Worse, sheer folly,” and his lordship brought his in- 
dignation to bear upon his cousin, who was rolling up his 
papers. “You always were a fool, Herbert, and you always 
will be.” Then addressing Morton again with an air of dis- 
missing an irritating subject, “ And if you, sir, would study 
the — er — the splendid misery of Mayfair — you would learn 
to attach more importance to money and would understand 
why we are forced, as it is said — to bow down to it.” 

“ To the power of money ? ” 

“I am afraid we do worship it, don’t you know,” said 
Lady Tollhurst. 

“ Listen,” said Morton, “a little while ago I was told of 
a youth in a garret hard by. An orphan — a Board School 
scholar who had won all their prizes, and with all the 


62 


The Ragged Messenger 

learning the State could give him, had been turned loose 
upon the world— to starve! ” 

“ I know,” said Eord Patrington. “ Education is the 
curse of the age.” 

“Under Providence, I saved his life — Doctor, he was lit- 
erally starving. I brought him food, and he snatched and 
snarled at me like a wolf when I used caution. Cost, 
elevenpence! That is the power of money.” 

“No doubt,” said Colbeck. 

“You say I don’t attach enough importance to money, 
Patrington. My dear fellow, if you had lived in the East 
End, you would know the importance of money.” 

“No doubt,” said Colbeck, “but ” 

“Here, among you in society, you are always talking 
about money; saying you worship it, twaddling about its 
force and undue influence. Rubbish! You, none of you, 
care a straw for money. You don’t know what it means.” 

,“ Don’t we, by George! ” Lord Patrington ejaculated. 

“Among us y it is life and death, and we have to worship 
it. It is the visible God of Good and Evil. My whole life 
is spent in the longing for money. In my sleep I dream of 
it — dream that I have millions: millions to give to the mil- 
lions who are dying for want of it; millions — to silence the 
horrible cry of its starving worshippers ” 

“Now you are over-estimating,” said Dr. Colbeck. 

“ Not a bit of it, Doctor — money is like a great door which 
shuts inwards. It is all-powerful for others. It has no 
power for oneself. You also know the world, Doctor. Is n’t 
it so? ” 

“ I don’t know that,” said Colbeck. 

‘ ‘ Nonsense! I see you know. You have seen men, buried 
in their vaults of gold, struggling at the door which shuts 
them in ” 

“ Oh, misers don’t count.” 

“ Give me a sovereign now, and how can I spend it for 
myself and be sure of buying an evening’s happiness? 


The Ragged Messenger 63 

Send me back with it to my people and I know what I can 
buy with it for them.” 

“ You have never made the experiment for yourself? ” 

“On every side you see it.” Morton disregarded the 
question. “ Each of us could give a dozen examples.” 

“No, I could n’t,” said Lord Patrington. 

“ In my own family,” Morton went on, “ there was a man 
— my cousin — who lived in evil ways — the son of a widow — 
who loved him. He left the country and his mother died — 
of a broken heart. Years ago I heard of him as one whose 
touch had turned common things to gold, and I pitied him 
from the bottom of my heart. If he lives still, he has learnt 
his lesson, — mocked by a mountain of gold which is power- 
less to buy him an hour’s forgetfulness. What do you say, 
Doctor? ” 

“I am thinking. When do you preach next? I should 
like to hear you.” 

“ I am always preaching. I have been preaching now.” 

“ I should n’t have ventured to say so.” 

“Your theories,” said Mr. Carpenter, in the background, 
languidly, “ are not exactly new.” 

“No, only their practice,” said Morton, without turning. 
“That might be a novelty, eh ? ” 

“I wish,” said Dr. Colbeck, “you were in a position to 
prove your theory.” 

“I should not be afraid,” said Morton in a low, grave voice. 

The man’s voice had curious alternations of tone and vol- 
ume, but it was never unmusical, though louder and stronger 
than is usual in social intercourse in Park Lane. It was an 
open-air voice, a good organ strengthened by much use, but 
controlled as a musician controls the mechanical instrument 
on which he plays. Evidently, Colbeck thought, he had 
been at pains some time or other to learn how to speak, as an 
actor learns the art. It was not the oratory of the socialist 
on the chair. But the man was genuine. In this brief 
quarter of an hour, Colbeck had by imperceptible degrees 


64 


The Ragged Messenger 

become convinced of the truth of the man’s sincerity. His 
pats on the shoulder, and the “ Old Fellows ” to Patrington, 
a sort of buoyant confidence and childish trustfulness of 
manner, and that curious good-humored smile of something 
more than friendship, of affection — these could not deceive. 
Beneath, lay the undoubting love of one’s kind. Since his 
student days Colbeck had known that rare smile about the 
lips of two or three of the great healers of the age. 

Suppose the man were worthy of her! 

“ Doctor, shall I tell you what you are thinking ? ” Mor- 
ton had been watching him. 

“Yes, if you can.” 

“That only one person is a bigger fool than a mad en- 
thusiast.” 

“ And who may that be ? ” 

“A sham cynic.” And Morton held out his hand. 
“Will you let me be your friend ? ” 

There was a slight pause before Colbeck spoke. 

“Yes.” 


VI 


A 


Lady Sarah had come into the room. 

“ Now for my petition,” and Morton seized her hand and 
held it in his. “Lady Sarah, are you going to grant my 
petition, I wonder ? ” 

She was in her hat and cloak, had just returned to the 
house, and had hastened to join her father’s guest. But she 
appeared scarcely to be aware of the presence of the others. 
She made no effort to release her hand, but stood quite still, 
watching the man’s face. The exercise of walking or the 
bright cold air of the street, it seemed, had brought a faint 
color to her pale cheeks. 

“You must tell me what it is,” said Lady Sarah. 

“ I will. I will tell you from the very beginning.” 

Mr. Carpenter had come forward to greet his cousin; but 
regarding the locked hands with an air of surprise, and find- 
ing that she did not observe his intention, he sauntered away. 
Lady Tollhurst looked at the ceiling. Dr. Colbeck made a 
movement of impatience. 

“Stay, Doctor,” said Morton, misinterpreting the move- 
ment. “Don’t go.” He dropped Lady Sarah’s hand and 
looked round him. “ I want all my friends to hear. My 
old friends and my new friends.” 

Mr. Carpenter sat down and crossed his legs. 

“ Lady Sarah, you remember the night of our last meeting 
here?” 

“Yes.” 

5 


65 


66 


The Ragged Messenger 

“The night I had to preach in Stepney ? ” 

“ Yes, more than a week ago.” 

“ I was hurrying into the mission-room, when I was 
stopped on the pavement outside, by a young woman.” 

“Where is your mission-room, did you say ? ” asked Lord 
Patrington. 

“Stepney. She plucked my sleeve, and said she must 
speak to me. I was late already, so I bade her come inside 
and wait till our service was over. I found her a seat near 
the door, and made my way to my place — and braced myself 
for my task.” 

“You must have been so tired after your work here,” said 
Lady Sarah. 

“ Yes, I was tired even to faltering. It was a little group 
of factory women that I had to talk to — women who believed 
in me and my message. The room was suffocatingly hot, 
and, as I looked down on the close-packed rows of care- 
worn faces, my throat seemed burning and my heart turned 
sick.” 

“Ah,” said Dr. Colbeck, “such places are never properly 
ventilated.” 

“My poor sheep were huddled together, but their shep- 
herd was fainting. For a moment I seemed to have forgot- 
ten my message.” 

“ You work yourself to death,” said Lady Sarah. 

“ No, no. I stumbled on, with the words that never fail. 
The facts of their lives are so obvious, poor souls, that the 
key to their hearts is not hard to find. The merciless toil 
that knows neither respite nor reward, Doctor, fills one with 
pity, if not with eloquence.” 

“ Yes,” said Colbeck, “ they have a hard time of it.” 

“ And that is all I felt then — infinite — boundless pity.” 

“We all feel that, I ’m sure,” said Lord Patrington, “ but 
what can one do ? ” 

“Very little. I told them so. But I promised them the 
good time coming — the treasure waiting for them in the 


The Ragged Messenger 67 

world beyond the grave. And now the words came clear 
and strong.” 

‘‘I wish I had heard you,” said Lady Sarah. 

“So do I. In a flash, it had come, and I was preaching 
better than I have ever done since the night old Bigland came 
to me. There was light now on the dull white faces; but it 
was not to them that I was preaching.” 

“ Not to them? ” said Lord Patrington. 

“No.” 

“ Then who the dickens were you preaching to ? ” 

* ‘ Out from the crowd at the back, she came creeping, her 
eyes fixed on mine, till she paused midway at the end of a 
bench. Doctor, it was a face to inspire one. I had hardly 
seen it in the street outside, when she spoke to me.” 

“ Ah,” said Colbeck, thoughtfully, “ Beauty in distress is 
inspiriting.” 

‘ ‘ It was not her beauty that influenced me, but the soul 
shining from her eyes.” 

“Well,” said Lady Sarah, “you say you preached to her 
only.” 

“ The light of the gas lamps played about her hair, until 
it seemed a halo of gold. And I told them of the golden 
treasure laid by for them all — I was full of confidence — 
speaking truly as ambassador from the highest of all powers. 
I promised them the good things they were cheated of down 
here. I told them not to fear, and I worked them up to a 
fever point of faith.” 

“No doubt,” said Colbeck, “Herr Fahrenheit was help- 
ing you in that stifling atmosphere.” 

“You don’t believe. I tell you they were carried away 
at the end.” 

“How? Swooning ? ’ ’ 

“No. Crying and sobbing and laughing like little 
children.” 

“ Children are not hysterical as a rule.” 

“ Like children who had been lost in a dark wood, and 


68 


The Ragged Messenger 

then, when their little hearts were bursting with dread of the 
darkness, had been suddenly shown the lights of their 
father’s house close at hand.” 

“Oh, like that, was it? ” 

“ I wish I had heard you,” Lady Sarah said again. 

“Well, the service was over and I sat down to rest. And 
then she came to me. Lady Sarah, this poor girl was stand- 
ing on the border line of death and infamy when she plucked 
my sleeve. She had heard of my message and had come to 
me in her bitter need. Would I help her? Think of it. 
Young, beautiful, penniless, and friendless. Would I save 
her now and hereafter ? She had heard my promise, and she 
claimed its fulfilment.” 

“You did all you could for her,” said Lady Sarah. 

‘‘Yes, all that I could.” 

“Don’t think me unfeeling, Mr. Morton,” said Colbeck, 
“ but how did you know it was a genuine case of distress? ” 

“ Exactly what I was going to ask,” said Lord Patrington. 

“There are,” said Mr. Carpenter, “ so many uncommonly 
good-looking girls who are not altogether deserving.” 

“Oh, ye of little faith! Do you suppose I don’t know, 
before I act. When a new patient comes to you, Doctor, you 
only know one thing ’ ’ 

“ I sometimes know nothing.” 

“You know that you mean by God’s help to cure him.” 

“Yes, but ” 

“But you first diagnose his case; then use the remedies 
your skill suggests. Well, so do I. Of course, I would help 
this poor girl, but first I must comprehend her.” 

“That ’s what I meant.” 

“ That night I found her food and shelter. So much the 
case demanded. I went to her next morning, next day, and 
every day.” 

“ This is why you have neglected us,” said Lady Sarah. 

“Yes, I have given the case all my time, and I have found 
the way to make her whole.” 


6g 


The Ragged Messenger 

“That ’s all right, then,” said Colbeck. 

“ First the past — then the future, eh ? If she had sinned 
as others, who could wonder ? ” 

“No one.” 

‘ ‘ But she had not sinned in that way. It was my first care 
to find out.” 

“How?” 

“Very simply,” said Morton, with intense earnestness. 
“I showed her this” and he unbuttoned his shabby coat; 
drew out a small metal cross, and held it as high as the chain 
to which it was fastened would allow him. “ I said, ‘ Kneel, 
my daughter, and open your heart to me. ’ ’ ’ 

“Oh! Ah! well ” 

“She swore to me by His Cross that she was pure; that 
she had known temptation, but escaped — so far; that her 
only sin had been turning her face from her Maker, in de- 
spair. She told me all her history. A good mother, but 
early lost, a bad father whom she had clung to, earning her 
bread by teaching, till he died of drink, and then the world 
had, indeed, been hard to her. A month ago she answered 
an advertisement for a governess in Austria — an advertise- 
ment which proved a fraud — of the sort you know of, Doctor. 
Well, she got out of the clutches of a gang of knaves in 
Vienna, and somehow struggled home — home to the wel- 
come of the London streets. He who watches over us all 
guided her steps to me. Now , are you satisfied, Doctor? ” 

“ Hr — well ” 

“What more do you want ? ” 

“Well — er — was there any proof of the truth of her 
story?” 

“Yes.” 

“ That ’ s better.” 

“The proof was in her face, her steady, eloquent eyes, 
every tone of her voice. And — remember — I held this before 
her. ’ ’ 

“ Well, well,” said Colbeck, “but ” 


70 


The Ragged Messenger 

“Don’t listen to him, Patrington. Lady Sarah , you can 
trust my judgment.” 

Lady Sarah answered slowly, “Yes, oh yes, of course.” 

“ There was the stamp of truth in every word. But that 
is the past. She hated going back to it, and I mean her to 
forget. I told her it was necessary for me to know all, 
but that the past should be closed for ever. Henceforth, 
we would look forward only. Now, Lady Sarah — will 
you help me with her future. That is the favor I ask of 
you.” 

Colbeck and Patrington had exchanged rapid glances of 
intelligence; Lady Tollhurst sprang to her feet. Lady Sarah 
answered, again very slowly, “With all my heart.” 

“You may command us,” said Lord Patrington, grandly: 
his whole manner was changed from reticence and doubt to 
frank cordiality. “ Morton, my dear chap, you may com- 
mand us.” 

“ Aha! ” cried Morton, triumphantly. “ Doctor, I knew I 
should n’t appeal in vain.” The blood had risen beneath the 
olive skin and glowed in a dusky patch on either cheek; he 
pushed back the hair from his forehead, and waved his hand 
above his head in laughing triumph. 

“Anything in our power,” said Lord Patrington, gaily. 

“Well spoken, dear fellow, well spoken,” and Morton 
hurried to one of the windows; looked out, and hurrying 
back, grasped Lady Sarah’s arm, speaking with extraordi- 
nary eagerness and unrestrained excitement. 

“ I have sat with her every day, studying her, reading her 
character, while I labored to give strength to her shaken 
faith.” 

“Yes.” 

“She is all refinement and delicacy — well educated and 
even clever. We can’t let her go till we have given her 
back her lost faith, can we? ” 

“No.” 

“ She is a lily shaken by the wind, a beautiful flower bent 


The Ragged Messenger 


7 1 


down by the tempest, but not yet broken, not yet soiled. 
We must guard her from the tempest.” 

‘‘Yes, yes. But how shall I help you ? ” 

“ First, you must find a home for her.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Yes,” said Lord Patrington. “ In the country. We ’ll 
manage that. ’ ’ 

“ No, that won’t do.” 

“Why not?” 

“ The home I want is somewhere else.” 

“Where?” 

“ Here. In this house.” 

“ In this house! ” Lord Patrington repeated the words in 
breathless amazement. 

“ Lady Sarah, I want you to take this girl into your life; 
to be to her as a friend — as a sister. Give her your love if 
you can She is worthy of it. Take her hand in yours and 
lead her back into the way of grace. Finish the work begun 
by me.” 

“That is really impossible,” said Lord Patrington. 

“Why?” 

“ We ’ll do anything in reason for this young lady — any- 
thing.” 

“ Anything — except what I ask.” 

“You ask an impossibility. Money — influence ” 

“ Money can’t help. The influence of a good woman is 
all I crave. Lady Sarah, don’t fail me. Do this for the sake 
of charity. Surely you can do it.” 

“Be reasonable, Morton. If my daughter said yes, I 
should still forbid it.” 

“But why?” 

“ It is out of the question. I won’t speak of class distinc- 
tions. But you must see — surely you must see — that my 
daughter cannot take an unknown girl by the hand and 
make a sister of her.” 

“ Why not, if she be worthy ? ” 


7 2 


The Ragged Messenger 

“If ! This girl may be all you think her, her plausible 
tale may be quite true ’ ’ 

“ It is true. Wait. Don’t say anything more. Don’t re- 
fuse till you have seen her. Lady Sarah, before you speak, 
look in Mary Ainsleigh’s eyes and see the answer to your 
doubts.” 

‘‘Yes, I will go and see her.” 

‘‘There is no need. She is here now — waiting for your 
verdict.” 

‘‘Here?” cried Lord Patrington, aghast. 

“May I ring?” and Morton pressed the button of an 
electric bell. “ I told Bigland to go and fetch her,” and he 
opened the door. 

“Stop,” cried Lord Patrington, “don’t ask her up here.” 

“ Surely,” interposed Mr. Carpenter, “ it would be as well 
to see the lady. ’ ’ 

“ What good can it do ? ” said Lord Patrington, angrily. 

Morton, by the open door, called to the servant as he ap- 
proached. “ Tell Mr. Bigland and the lady to come here.” 

“ Mr. Morton,” said Lord Patrington, in dignified protest, 
“you force me into a very painful position. I owe you a 
heavy debt of gratitude. I assure you I feel it.” 

“ I know, I know.” 

“ Be generous. Don’t ask for an impossible payment.” 

“I don’t.” 

‘ ‘ Consult any man of the world. Ask Colbeck — or Car- 
penter. My daughter cannot do what you ask.” 

“You are carried away by your enthusiasm,” said Col- 
beck. “ Really, it is out of the question.” 

“ It will be rather embarrassing,” said Mr. Carpenter, “ to 
explain before the lady. ’ ’ 

“Confound it, yes,” said Lord Patrington. 

“ Wait! ” said Morton. Then, looking through the door- 
way, “Come, Mary,” and Mr. Bigland and the new visitor 
came in. 

She was a pallid, dark-eyed woman of thirty, with dark 


73 


The Ragged Messenger 

hair drawn back over the ears and rolled in a coil on her 
neck. She was very plainly dressed in well-worn black; 
straw hat and dark ribbon; coarse sailor jacket and rusty 
serge skirt; black suede gloves, shiny and much mended — 
the costume of the humbler class of shop-girl going to and 
from her work in a poor neighborhood. Yet a shop-girl so 
good-looking would have added some touches of finery, and 
would soon have soared to the higher plane of the rustling 
silk dress and stately parade of a West-End show-room. 
She looked at her hosts with shy, frightened eyes which 
quickly drooped beneath long lashes. 

“This is Mary Ainsleigh,” said Morton, taking her by 
the hand and leading her towards the windows. “Mary, 
these are my good friends. I have asked them to give you 
the home which I cannot find for you, and they want to see 
you. Don’t be afraid. They are all that is kind and good. 
Stand there in the sunlight, and have no fear. ’ ’ 

Lady Sarah stood looking at her intently; Lord Patrington 
turned to Colbeck with a gesture of despair; Colbeck was 
watching Eady Sarah’s long fingers, clasped upon the back 
of a chair. As Morton came towards them eagerly, Mr. 
Carpenter whispered in very audible admiration, “She is 
beautiful. The face of a saint in an altar window.” 

“Yes, yes — now for your answer, Eady Sarah.” 
“Morton,” said Eord Patrington. “Miss — my dear 
young lady, we have been deeply touched by your sad story, 

and speaking for myself and my daughter ” 

“ No, let her speak for herself. Eady Sarah, do you 
refuse?” 

“Iam not a free agent. This is my father’s house ” 

“Our answer,” said Lord Patrington, “is what I have 

already indicated, but ” 

“ Good. I am mistaken.” 

“ My dear fellow ” 

Morton was buttoning his coat; the dark glow in his face 
had risen to the brows and then faded, as, setting lips and 


74 


The Ragged Messenger 

drawing himself to his full height, he stood for a moment 
looking at Lord Patrington. Then, as those dusky patches 
observed by Colbeck began to re-form beneath the skin, he 
turned. “ Well, Mary, I have been a fool. I have deluded, 
humiliated you,” and he took her hand. “ Can you forgive 
me?” 

“ I am not disappointed, Mr. Morton; I never hoped that 
your friends would help me.” 

Lady Sarah moved towards them. “ But I will help you. 
I won’t rest till I have found you a home where ” 

“But not here," — Morton threw back his head and 
laughed. “ Mary, I have deceived you and deceived myself. 
Well, we are no worse off for that.” 

‘‘Iam unworthy of all the trouble you have taken.” 

“ Unworthy! That is what they think, not I.” His eyes 
swept round the room and his face flushed again. “ Won’t 
you believe me ? ’ ’ and his voice shook from excitement. 
“ They won’t help us, and we stand alone — you and I. You 
know what my life is — a ragged servant of God — fed by the 
ravens! Dare you throw in your lot with mine? Surely we 
have need of each other ? ” 

Mr. Bigland, advancing with outstretched hands, called 
piteously, “Master, master!” 

“ It is I who am unworthy, not you! If you are content 
to take me for your husband, I am content — happy — inex- 
pressibly happy.” 

“Master!” cried the old man, again in imploring tones, 
“ your work, your work! ” 

“Show them that we are not afraid of poverty — that we 
can fight our battle without help.” 

“Yes,” said the girl, with downcast eyes. "I am not 
afraid.” 

“ Fever point! ” said Colbeck in a whisper to Lady Toll- 
hurst. “That was indicated all along! ” 

No one had noticed the open door and the servant usher- 
ing in a visitor. A middle-aged stranger, hat in hand, was 


The Ragged Messenger 


75 


glancing from one to the other as he stood in the door way. 
With a comprehensive bow to the assembled company, he 
turned to Morton. 

“Mr. Morton, I was informed at your lodgings that I 
should find you here.” Morton bowed. “I am Mr. Nor- 
man — of Norman and George, solicitors, Essex Street. Hav- 
ing business with you of some importance, I followed you.” 

“ Business with me, Mr. Norman ? ” 

“You are the Reverend John Morton, I assume ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Formerly of Ashford, Lincolnshire, the son of Richard 
and Elizabeth Morton of Ashford.” 

“ I am that man.” 

“ Then if you will kindly — I am sorry to have intruded, 
but I think you will forgive me.” 

“ What is your business ? ” 

Mr. Norman made a deprecating gesture. 

“ It is a matter concerning yourself.” 

“ These are all my friends. Let them hear.” 

“If you wish.” 

“Lord Patrington, Lady Sarah Joyce.” As Morton 
named his friends, Mr. Norman bowed politely to each. 
“Lady Tollhurst, Dr. Colbeck, Mr. Carpenter, Mr. Bigland; 
and this lady is my future wife. I have no fear of their 
hearing. I can guess your errand.” 

“Can you?” 

“You come from some ecclesiastical authority. Armed 
with all the powers of the Church, you come to hale the 
rebellious priest, John Morton, before .some musty court. 
Well” — smiling — “I like fighting. I am ready to meet 
you all.” 

“ No, no, Mr. Morton. You wrong me,” and Mr. Norman 
smiled benignantly. “ I have no such charge. I am glad 
you are among friends. Perhaps you have not heard of the 
death of your cousin — Henry Vavasour.” 

“ No.” 


7 6 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ You knew he was your cousin ? ” 

“Oh, yes.” 

* ‘ He died quite recently. He was — as you probably 
know — a wealthy man.” 

“ I have heard so.” 

“ We are the London agents of Messrs. Gordon of Liver- 
pool. Mr. Vavasour died in Liverpool.” 

“ Liverpool! By George! ” ejaculated Dr. Colbeck. 

‘ ‘ And our country clients drew his will. ’ ’ 

“Well?” 

“ They instructed us to find you. There were a lot of 
your sermons and pamphlets among your relative’s papers, 
and I employed a clever detective — one Griffiths — to hunt 
you down, because you benefit under that will.” 

“Yes?” 

“ To be candid,” and Mr. Norman smiled again, “ I had 
never heard of you, sir. Had I lived in the East End of 
course! Mr. Griffiths laughed at his task. Like employing 
detectives to find the Archbishop of Canterbury, eh ? ” 

Morton bowed, and Mr. Norman continued slowly: “ Mr. 
Vavasour had amassed a large fortune, Mr. Morton.” 

Colbeck touched Lady Tollhurst’s arm, and whispered, 
“Vavasour! That’s the name. The man I told you 
of.” 

“ We are instructed,” said Mr. Norman, slowly, “ that the 
realizable value of the estate may be spoken of in millions — 
sterling, you understand, not dollars. Several millions — be- 
tween nine and ten millions — sterling.” 

‘ ‘ And he leaves me ? ’ ’ 

“ All that he dies possessed of.” 

“ Bless my soul! ” cried Lord Patrington. 

“ Astounding end to my story! ” said Dr. Colbeck. 

“It ’s not a practical joke?” asked Lady Tollhurst, ex- 
citedly. 

“No, no,” said Mr. Norman. 

“ Nor any absurd mistake ? ” asked Mr. Carpenter. 


77 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Don’t be afraid, Mr. Morton,” said the solicitor. ‘‘You 
may rely on having inherited your cousin’s vast wealth.” 

Everybody seemed to be talking volubly except Morton. 
His eyes had sunk. As he stood perfectly still, looking at a 
shaft of yellow sunlight where it struck the carpet, his 
thoughts seemed to have wandered far away. At last he 
spoke, in a low, firm voice. 

“ I take up my burden cheerfully.” 

‘ ‘ Burden f ” said Lord Patrington. 

“ Grant me strength to carry it,” said Morton, lifting his 
head and looking at the ceiling. ‘‘ Help me to carry it, 
Mary.” 

“ My dear fellow, you are staggered,” said Lord Patring- 
ton, sympathetically. 

“ No wonder! By such a piece of news,” said Dr. Colbeck. 

“Burden! Burden!” Mr. Carpenter repeated the word 
in amazement. ‘ ‘ What do you say, sir ? ” 

“ I say,” — and Morton’s voice rang loud and joyous, — “I 
say that you shall build your House, and put that face in the 
altar window of your chapel.” 


VII 

I T was a nine days’ wonder. All the world talked of it; all 
the world thought of it. In spoken words, in written 
words, the legend of magnificence swept round the turning 
earth, and for a space made brains whirl in dizzy speculation 
and sickly, envious doubt. Especially, and very naturally, 
the world’s Press gloried in it, and gave it wide welcome. 

Like all things gigantic, said the London journals — 
cyclones, trusts, and corners — Mr. Morton’s luck comes from 
the wonderland across the Atlantic. Despite the influx of 
rich men from South Africa, the gold fields of West Aus- 
tralia, the oil wells of the Caspian, the increasing band of 
millionaires who have settled in our midst of recent years, 
we on this side are still unaccustomed to the contemplation 
of such “sky-scraping piles’’ of money in the hands of private 
individuals. A British duke no doubt possesses vast terri- 
torial power, a large rent-roll on paper, palaces, picture gal- 
leries, lakes and rivers and harbors: in a word, immovable 
wealth, the extent of which it might be almost impossible to 
estimate. But the one thing, as he himself would be the 
first to admit, which he has not, is ready cash — the liquid 
stream caused to flow by a stroke of the pen. He could, it 
is probable, no more write a check for one hundred thousand 
pounds without warning and preparation than you or our- 
selves. Not so, on the other side. . . . The imagina- 

tion recoils from calculating the true proportions and inward 
meaning of a fortune such as Mr. Morton’s. 

Nothing, of course, could be farther from the truth, as the 

78 


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The Ragged Messenger 

clever newspaper men well knew. The readers revelled in 
the calculation, and the writers made it for them morning 
after morning, night by night, in a hundred new methods. 

It was the dwarf summer paragraph swollen into an 
autumn giant: the ancient “ Balaam ” of the dog days leap- 
ing into the splendor of large type and leaded headlines as 
the special feature of the “newsy” season; the apotheosis 
of the well-worn fable of the bricklayer or the sempstress and 
the lucky windfall, which never fails in its appeal to the 
universal love of the marvellous and the deep-seated human 
craving for the gift of chance rather than the recompense of 
labor. Always it sets one musing and castle-building, while 
one pretends to spurn the nonsense. It is not true, perhaps; 
but it might be. So, Alnaschar-like, one dreams: searching 
the mind for some good deed in the past — helping the ec- 
centric miser; rescuing the old lady’s cat from the savage 
mastiff, etc. — until, finding nothing, one is forced to invent 
a fatuously imbecile testament. “ On this occasion, of three 
men present at the tea-party, he was the one who picked up 
my tea-spoon — and returned it with a good-natured smile. 
As a tardy payment for his courtesy to a middle-aged woman 
devoid of any personal charm, I hereby bequeath to him all 
that my famous castle in Spain, with all and every the gross 
revenues thereunto attaching, absolutely . And I beg him to 
spend it all freely on himself and not hoard it or squander it 
on others. This is the last will and dying wish of, etc., etc. 
Duly witnessed and all in order.” 

Thus all the world read avidly of the columns of fact and 
fancy which the papers devoted to the subject of Mr. Morton 
and his stupendous windfall. 

“As examples to bring the fact home to the mind in its 
entirety, as a means of conveying a concrete impression, 
however roughly and inadequately, here are some concrete 
cases:— At the present moment there is a scheme before Par- 
liament for connecting Hammersmith and the Bank with a 
deep level tube-railway. The cost, it is owned, will be 


8o 


The Ragged Messenger 

gigantic when considered with regard to the comparatively 
short distance traversed. A rival proposal suggests an 
alternative route connecting with the existing underground 
system. This is an infinitely cheaper means of meeting the 
growing demand for rapid Bast and West transit. Both 
routes are probably required, yet it seems doubtful if the 
necessary capital will be forthcoming for either. Mr. Morton, 
out of his own pocket, could build and equip both railways. 

“It is alleged that our hands would be strengthened by 
the presence of a second squadron in far Eastern waters. 
Certainly if we were strong enough to send a fighting fleet 
without weakening ourselves in other quarters of the globe, 
the question of co-operation with any ally would forever dis- 
appear. But rich as we may be, the taxpayer can scarcely 
be called upon to meet so colossal a demand. Such a 
squadron would necessarily consist of, say, six battleships 
at a cost of a million each, as many first class cruisers 
severally costing over half that sum, together with de- 
stroyers, torpedo boats, etc.: the lesser fry that wait upon 
the movements of these leviathans of the deep. Desirable 
possibly; but out of the question — even for England. Mr. 
Morton, emptying his private treasury, could create and 
launch that fleet. 

“ It is common knowledge that Mr. Morton, although an 
ordained clergyman, is under the ban of the Church. For 
reasons best known to themselves, the powers ecclesiastical 
that be have thought proper to inhibit him from following 
the sacred calling to which they themselves have admitted 
him. Bishops are not perhaps the safest or calmest judges 
in purely doctrinal disputes, and it may seem to many that 
while controversy rages faith is in danger of dying. Be this 
as it may, certain it is that, subject for years to what on the 
face of it appears more like the persecution of the Middle 
Ages than enlightened church government of modern times, 
Mr. Morton has been denied the right to preach in any 
church from Band’s End to John o’ Groats. If he has at 


The Ragged Messenger 


81 


rare intervals succeeded in obtaining a pulpit, it has been 
without the knowledge or consent of the bench of bishops, 
and means have been speedily found to drive him from it. 

At his own expense, Mr. Morton could now erect a fane 
vaster than St. Peter’s, more splendid than Cologne, and 
preach therein from a pulpit of solid gold, encrusted with 
precious gems such as the lavish ostentation of a Sultan of 
ancient Hindustan could not vie with, and yet remain a 
fabulously wealthy man.” 

In this wise the fluent scribblers strove to drive home their 
big gold-headed nails, while their humbler brothers, with a 
Whitaker’s Almanack in one hand and a Ready Reckoner in 
the other, hammered away with little tin tacks of bald fact: — 
Mr. Morton’s monthly income exceeds that of the largest 
London club for the year. Mr. Morton’s annual income is 
more than the total national debt of the republic of Bolivia. 
Mr. Morton’s income for one week, if invested in annuities 
with any of the principal insurance companies, would pro- 
vide a guinea a week for twenty families, assuming the age 
of each of the heads of the families to be fifty-one years, and 
all to be what is technically termed ‘ ‘ good lives. ’ ’ 

Beyond all such efforts of the busy pen there were pencillers 
who, pandering to the eye as well as to the mental ear, traf- 
ficked in pictorial presentments: Mr. Morton’s money in 
sovereigns packed into neat sacks and placed in railway 
wagons forming a train with the engine at Cannon Street 
and the guard’s van at Charing Cross; or the armies of the 
world advancing to receive it in five-pound notes; or in a 
column of three-penny bits reaching so far beyond the moon 
that it almost touched the nearest fixed star. 

Of whence and how the money had come, much was of 
course said. 

Vague and garbled, pure fiction or based on fact, all ac- 
counts which professed themselves as emanating from re- 
sponsible authority in America concurred in hinting at 

matters dark and devious in the origin of the Vavasour mil- 
6 


82 


The Ragged Messenger 

lions. Twenty years ago Mr. Vavasour had contrived some 
sinister coup, a plot or counterplot, information bought and 
sold, and in the end proving false; and, in a moment, Wall 
Street lay writhing and vowing vengeance while he emerged 
from the cloud of disaster a rich man. Then it seemed he 
had become possessed of real estate in Brooklyn, and had 
squatted toad-like and terrible on the expanding lungs of the 
city, an incubus, to be removed at any sacrifice. After that 
it was the usual American story of the growing pile — the 
weapon of wealth in strong, cruel hands, wielded boldly and 
mercilessly. Duels between rival roads, corners and trusts, 
interests captured and controlled, money waging war with 
money, while, perhaps, the innocent inhabitants of the field 
of war look on and starve — out of such familiar, if still in- 
comprehensible materials, the man’s life was pieced together 
by hasty correspondents. One thing seemed clear: no one 
in America had guessed how rich he really was. He lived 
apart — a silent, secretive reprobate, not fit for society, not 
pleasant to the interviewer; a workman in a subterranean 
workshop, quarrying and carving the blocks of his monu- 
ment, and each block an unsuspected million. 

As weeks passed and the wonder of it faded, items of news 
took the place of descriptive articles. The money was there: 
people did not wish to be told that again. But what would 
he do with it ? Statement and contradiction followed each 
other with the usual rapidity. Mr. Morton had bought the 
large mansion in Grosvenor Square known till recently as 
Wiltshire House. An inquiry at the agents in Pall Mall 
had elicited the information that this noble mansion was still 
in the market. Mr. Morton had secured a well-known sport- 
ing estate in Norfolk, in Cumberland, in Leicestershire — in 
half the counties of the United Kingdom. Mr. Morton and 
his deputies were surveying the West End of London with 
a view to clearing away a large portion of it, to make room 
for a really suitable residence. Then it was said the report 
was inaccurate: Mr. Morton was not busy in the West End, 


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The Ragged Messenger 

but in the Bast End. Already, it was alleged, he made im- 
mense purchases of real estate — in Whitechapel, St. George’s, 
Stepney, Poplar, Bethnal Green. The secret had been well 
kept, but now leaking out, Mr. Morton’s operations — con- 
ducted on a hitherto unprecedented scale — had been checked 
by a sudden boom in Bast End land values. Mr. Morton’s 
intention appeared to be, not the provision of a site for his 
own residence, but no less than the total demolition and 
clearance of all those social plague spots which are marked 
blackest on the map of poverty. Then came guarded denials 
from two eminent firms of auctioneers. No purchases of this 
character had as yet been completed by anybody. And so 
on, and so forth. 

Then there were stories of pensions given to all Mr. Mor- 
ton’s indigent friends and followers, whose name was legion. 
One hundred per annum to be had for the asking by any one 
who could prove that he or she had ever been a member of 
his ambient street congregations; and already thousands of 
such pensions granted. A splendid pauperization of the 
submerged multitude such as the State had never dreamed 
of: the golden age come to Bast Eondon. But nothing was 
known in these localities of the pensions. Our representatives 
failed to obtain evidence of a single case : so the statements 
must be considered as premature. “Not a few, indeed, of 
the denizens of the slums visited were personally acquainted 
with Mr. Morton, and all seemed to have heard of his ac- 
cession to wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, but their 
attitude was one of extraordinary apathy,” etc., etc. None 
of our representatives, in spite of unremitting labor, had, so 
far, succeeded in obtaining a glimpse of Mr. Morton himself. 

But out of all these stories of information, — whether 
garbled fact, distorted fancy, or wilful fable, — in spite of con- 
tradiction and doubt, the golden legend as it grew took 
definite and final shape. Somewhere, could one but get at 
him, there was a man pouring out gold, an open hand sow- 
ing it broadcast, as gold had never been sown before. 


8 4 


The Ragged Messenger 

In the very best society, tongues were as busy on this 
enthralling subject as tongues upon omnibuses or behind 
counters. Lady Tollhurst was going about and saying more 
excitedly than ever: “ My good man, do let me speak. I 
know him”; and telling spell-bound listeners of the meeting 
at Lady Barker’s luncheon party. She was rarely permitted 
to say more, because all flew in search of Lady Barker as to 
the fountain-head. If Lady Barker had once entrapped him 
in her social menagerie, she could do it again and show the 
world the lion comfortably caged. It would not be Lady 
Barker’s fault, all knew, if she failed in her task. Lady 
Barker, in feverish mortification, could but refer them back 
to Lady Tollhurst. The lion had roamed beyond the range 
of her frenzied invitations, and was, for the moment at 
least, inaccessible; but he had been last seen by Lady 
Tollhurst. 

Society, or a representative section of it, hearing vaguely 
of the Tollhurst-Patrington connecting link, sat down and 
wrote to Lady Tollhurst very seriously to this effect: I hear 
that you found him, but I do trust that you are going to 
hand him round, and not try to keep him all to yourself. 
Or, as a typical verbatim reproduction of fifty similar letters: 

‘ ‘ Does he want a secretary and general guide to prevent 
himself being grossly imposed upon ? If so, my Archie 
would be the man for the post; and I do so desire to keep him 
in London if it be possible. Will you, like the dear you are, 
promise me your influence ? ’ ’ 

But the golden man himself had become invisible: not to 
be got at by any manner of means. 

Dr. Colbeck, calling at the house in Park Lane about a 
week after his last visit, received the unsolicited information 
from the butler that Mr. Morton had not been seen there. 

No, the footman said, her ladyship was not in; her lady- 
ship was out of town. His lordship was in London, but not 
at home. Then the butler, a servant of some years’ standing, 
very properly lurking in the shadows of the big hall, had 


The Ragged Messenger 85 

come forward, and his underlings had effaced themselves. 
Colbeck had tacitly encouraged him to be loquacious. 

Lady Sarah was in Devonshire, at Umberleigh, Lady Wrag- 
ford’s place. “Her ladyship’s aunt, sir.” Lady Sarah 
had been very poorly; confined to her room. A touch of in- 
fluenza, the butler understood; but was himself disposed to 
think her ladyship’s work with the charities had been of late 
too severe. Dr. Garnet of Hertford Street in attendance had 
ordered rest and change of air, and Lady Sarah had immedi- 
ately gone for a week or ten days to her aunt at Umberleigh 
in Devonshire. 

“ We don’t see Mr. Morton now , sir,” the butler added, 
with a glow of respectful interest. ‘ ‘A week yesterday since 
he was here. I suppose, sir, it ’s all true. There ’s an 
article, sir, in the Daily Telegraph — I can fetch it, sir, in a 
moment, if you have n’t seen it.” 

“ No, I won’t trouble you,” and Dr. Colbeck went away. 

Lord Patrington, as well as Lady Tollliurst, was being 
worried by letters, week after week. Indeed, most of the 
letters he received, whether from foolish friends or amiable 
relations, seemed to annoy and irritate. Lady Kmily, writing 
from her beautiful home at Wheatley, was always irritating; 
and especially so this autumn. But a letter from his cousin 
Bertie made him really angry. 

Bertie, oddly enough, seemed to have disappeared as per- 
manently as Mr. Morton. But, as perhaps nobody missed 
Mr. Carpenter, this disappearance passed without comment. 
Now, of a sudden, after five or six weeks, he wrote, as it 
seemed to Lord Patrington without any valid occasion, and 
most pompously and insufferably. When every one was 
seeking the position of secretary, Mr. Carpenter was seeking 
secretaries. 

“ I want two trustworthy young secretaries. I shall not 
require them to assist me with skilled knowledge, but merely 
to attend to my correspondence, keep my accounts, and so 


86 


The Ragged Messenger 

forth. As you are so prominently active in the business world, 
I thought you might have some protigfc to recommend.” 

His lordship tore up the vainglorious note and did not reply. 
It was, of course, Bertie’s swagger, a bogus request, just to 
convey the intelligence to the family that Cousin Bertie was 
now a big man. Not for a moment did Lord Patrington 
doubt as to the hidden source of Bertie’s new consequence. 
Reflected glory from Mr. Morton, what else ? Chance had 
shown for a minute the munificent patron of his dreams, and 
from that minute Bertie had hung on to the skirts of the 
patron’s coat. 

It was after being annoyed by Mr. Carpenter that Lord 
Patrington had the curiosity to pay a call upon Messrs. Nor- 
man and George, solicitors, of Essex Street. Driving back 
one afternoon from a general meeting at the Cannon Street 
Hotel, he stopped his cab and left it waiting on the Embank- 
ment while he made his way up the steep flight of steps be- 
low the old archway, and, easily finding the old-fashioned 
offices, sent in his card. Lords are still lords — in Essex Street; 
and he was most civilly entertained by a junior partner. 

Our Mr. Norman, with our Mr. Somebody else to help 
him, was in New York, strenuously tackling and sagely 
unravelling the intricate and enormous interests involved. 
Yes, Mr. Morton had honored the firm by placing himself 
altogether in their hands. A remarkable attribute attached 
to the honor conferred, which must make it memorable as 
what we moderns ever hoard in our minds. It was a record. 

“ In the annals of the profession,” said the junior partner, 
“out and away the biggest client who has ever fallen into 
one firm alone. When the Duke of Lanarkshire walked out 
of Grey, Hutchison and Brinker’s in a huff one morning, 
and handed his London estates over to Camp, Rawlston and 
Rawlston — that was a record. Lord Beverley’s business, 
from the old people in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to Hammond’s, 
was a record— at the time. But they are all beat— left stand- 
ing by this. ’ ’ 


87 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Is it really as much as people are saying ? ” 

“ More! ” said the junior partner in an impressive whisper. 
“It ’s impossible to say how much.” 

“Really !” 

\ “ Probate has been granted, and we have already paid two 

separate sums of one hundred and twenty- five thousand 
pounds to the Inland Revenue. I could show you the re- 
ceipts if you like. A thing like this is a windfall for the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer — when you come to think of 
it. . . . 

“Oh, yes,” the junior partner added tolerantly. “They 
have treated us very well at Somerset House. In fact, the 
whole thing is going smoothly and easily. You know he is 
sole executor — and he takes everything: not a sixpence to 
any one else. The late Mr. Vavasour invested a very con- 
siderable portion of his wealth on this side. He was not an 
American citizen, you know — retained his domicile here — 
and that has simplified matters for us. Things are going 
smoothly in New York also — all plain sailing now.” 

Eord Patrington was not shown the Inland Revenue re- 
ceipts, but he was shown the adjoining house, which had 
been long standing empty, as though waiting to serve the 
turn of the firm in their emergency. Two plasterers, in the 
doorway that had been opened between the two houses, 
carefully guarded his lordship from the peril of soiling his 
overcoat, and the junior partner led him by the gloved hand. 
From roof to cellar, the fine old house— home of a judge in 
the days of Johnson’s club — was in the hands of workmen; 
dusty bricklayers, odorous painters, and oily electricians. 
Two big rooms only had been temporarily furnished; and 
in these the black-coated clerks, busy as ants at their desks 
and tables and letter-books, were toiling at the mechanical 
details of the great succession. Ten, twelve, fifteen clerks, 
Lord Patrington counted, laboring in the two rooms! Soon 
the whole house— every room in it — would be filled with the 
business of the new client. 


88 


The Ragged Messenger 

“The office in New York is bigger than this will be, but 
that is only for the time. This will be permanent, of course. 
It ’s nothing when you come to think of it. Suppose the 
private affairs of a whole town — private investments: leases, 
conveyances, and all that sort of thing — of thirty thousand 
inhabitants were conducted under one roof! One would n’t 
be surprised then. But it does n’t strike you in that light 
when it is only one man. Yet he is bigger than many such 
towns, he is.” 

An office boy, like a porter with luggage, was wheeling a 
truck across the landing, and the junior partner stopped him. 
It was one of those flat iron trollies used in banks, and 
sometimes in solicitors’ offices for carrying the deed boxes 
from room to room. Its burden now was an immense basket, 
filled to overflowing with unopened letters and book packets. 

“See! His letters since this morning, and most of them 
marked private or immediate — beggars, all! That ’s why 
we don’t give his address to anybody.” 

“ Oh! You can’t give me his address, then ? ” 

“Well, no. To you, of course — he ’d wish you to have 
it. But, if it ’s all the same, write here. I ’ll make it my 
personal care that it reaches him direct. Write your name — 
or — er — your title, as I suppose I ought to say — on the out- 
side of the envelope.” 

“What is he doing?” 

“ Oh, he ’s very much occupied. Getting married for one 
thing! ” 

And, as the junior partner conducted his noble visitor 
downstairs again, he dropped his voice to a confidential 
whisper. 

“ Some people have luck. There ’ s a match for a girl to 
make! And a nobody, so they say. There ’s no settlement; 
but just to think of it — a girl without a penny. I suppose 
he could have had a royal princess if he had wanted her. 
Continental, I mean,” he added loyally. “ I don’t mean our 
own people! ” 


89 


The Ragged Messenger 

The same afternoon Lord Patrington, sitting in his own 
room, heard again from Lady Emily. It was a small room 
on the ground floor. There were bookcases filled with hand- 
somely bound books which their owner never opened, with 
cupboards below the books and marble busts above them; a 
massive writing-table and desk were littered with papers and 
paper-covered literature — Parliamentary Commission reports, 
company reports and prospectuses, stockbrokers’ monthly 
circulars, lists of shareholders; one of the big leather arm- 
chairs was encumbered by those volumes of reference which 
his lordship did occasionally read — Peerages, agricultural 
hand-books, auctioneers’ catalogues, Christmas annuals of 
estate agents, farm-implement makers, and chemical manure 
manufacturers. If the disorder of my lord’s working-room 
was indicative of my lord’s working methods, my lord was 
an habitual muddler. 

Lord Patrington, rolling Emily’s letter into a tight ball, 
made a curious spluttering noise, from the force of the effort 
he was making to compress it into the smallest possible 
sphere before he violently threw it into the fire. 

“ I must say again, dear papa, that if the half, nay, the 
fourth part of what the papers say be true, you and Sarah 
have let slip such a chance as on our knees we might all 
have prayed for. For Sarah’s sake, for all our sakes — to my 
darlings in the future, and for their advancement in the 
world, of course, I think of what such a connection must 
have proved — surely you might have waited without all the 
resentment and fuss which I suppose drove him to look else- 
where. You know what I have always said. Why on earth 
could n’t you make the best of things ? ” 

Meantime, in the old Church of Saint Hildebrand, in the 
eastern part of London, Morton and his bride had been made 
one. 

What would not “ our representatives ” have given to be 
present at the ceremony ? What material for a column and 


9 o 


The Ragged Messenger 

a half of descriptive matter and philosophical reflection was 
here flagrantly wasted! The bare and dark old church, so 
different from the flower-decked, brilliantly illuminated St. 
George’s, Hanover Square; the fog from the street creeping 
in and rendering ghostly the sacred building; and with the 
fog, one or two curious idlers: a factory girl, a loafer, shuf- 
fling their feet and coughing near the warm stove; one de- 
cently dressed woman, apparently of the better class, in the 
darkness below a gallery — these the strange scene and the 
incongruous spectators for so momentous a contract! 

At the altar rails stood the man and the woman, two black 
and insignificant figures, and supporting them, figures more 
insignificant still: Mr. Bigland and a fair-haired young man. 
The lamps were lit above the door leading to the vestry, a 
couple of candles were burning on the altar, to give light 
rather than convey any mystic meaning; and the vicar and 
his two curates, surpliced, solemn, and full of thought, were 
taking each his share of the prayers and the exhortations. 
There was no organist, no music, no choir: the pew-opener 
sat in a dark corner, callously indifferent and brutally ignor- 
ant as to the import of what was happening. Only the vicar 
and the curates, as it might be supposed, knew and had 
been drawn together by the golden name, each to take his 
part in the wonder of it. Even in passing through the ves- 
try, such an one, with a brief whisper, might repair the 
tower, wipe out the chancel fund deficit, bring a kaleido- 
scopic glitter of stained glass into all the white staring win- 
dows, or lift and carry away the whole crushing weight of 
debt which lay upon the church and parish. Who could tell ? 

“Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife . . .?” 

“I will.” 

“ Wilt thou have all these unnumbered millions to be thy 
wedded husband ? ’ ’ 

The vicar might have made such a slip, for the thought 
of it filled his mind, but he used the conventional words in 
asking his solemn question. 


The Ragged Messenger 


9 1 


In the vestry nothing unusual occurred. The bridegroom 
drew forth a shabby leather pouch — the purse of an artisan, 
shiny and almost black from use — and tendered the lowest 
scale-fee for the task performed; thanked the clergy, and 
left them coldly wondering. 

Outside, in the foggy street, a four-wheeled cab had been 
waiting with a well-dressed lady’s maid shivering inside it. 
Ere the little wedding-party had left the vestry, Eady Sarah, 
emerging from the darkness below the gallery, had reached 
her cab and driven away. 

“This dear lad, Walter, must lunch with us,” said Mor- 
ton, ‘ ‘ and Bigland, of course. Bowman, let me introduce 
you. This is my beloved wife.” 

The luncheon was at an Italian restaurant, the best and 
most exclusive house of entertainment in Bethnal Green. 
Throughout the quiet meal young Mr. Bowman and old Mr. 
Bigland seemed to be well content to hang upon their mas- 
ter’s words and gaze into his face in silent reverence, without 
attempting to contribute to the gaiety of the conversation. 
Then, separating from their guests, Morton and his wife, by 
tram and omnibus and train, made their way westwards. 

“ Where did you send my box ? Where are we going ? ” 
asked Mrs. Morton. 

They were walking through a Bloomsbury street; he was 
holding her arm affectionately; they had walked from Gower 
Street Station. It was nearly dark; the street lamps were 
being lighted; and, by a lamp-post at a corner, a flower girl 
was gathering together her poor flowers and packing her 
basket ere she slung it on her shoulder and trudged home- 
wards to the Drury Dane slums. Before answering the 
question, he stopped and bought a bundle of white chrysan- 
themums. 

“To grace our marriage chamber. For you" he said 
gaily. “Where are we going? — home! To the rooms I 
have taken. We are nearly there, — Sophia Street. Such 
lodgings as you and I never dreamed of living in! A noble 


92 


The Ragged Messenger 

drawing-room and bedroom, on the ground floor, with 
folding-doors between, doors as big as Patrington’s. Ours! 
Ours! ” 

He squeezed her arm in his strong, nervous grip as he 
hurried her along. 

“ Ours! Think of it. And I am going to sit all the eve- 
ning, by our own fireside, with my darling’s hand in mine — 
and thank my Father which is in Heaven.” 

And to-morrow?” she asked in a low voice. ‘‘Shall 
we be going away to-morrow ? ’ ’ 

‘‘To-morrow, I am going on with my work; but the 
world is going to move to music, the work is going to be lit 
with the rapture of my love.” 


VIII 

I N the dusk of an afternoon just before Christmas, Morton 
was preaching to a gathering crowd beneath a lamp-post 
at a street corner in Whitechapel. Bareheaded and alone, 
book in hand, he had mounted upon some empty orange- 
boxes, and, to the summons of his loud, clear voice, the 
loafers had come slouching. 

About him was the usual street market of the neighbor- 
hood: costermongers’ barrows and horseless carts wedged 
close together, containing fish, fruit, vegetables; here and 
there, little stalls built up of crates and boxes, with flapping 
tarpaulin on iron rods to shield the sordid wares, colored 
cottons, American cloth, nuts that had been stored under 
beds, cakes that had been cooked in cellars; deep barrels of 
sprats; and abject baskets on the pavement itself whose 
ragged owners could muster no better stock than groundsel 
and weeds, gravel and white sand for the bird-keepers; or 
broken china, damaged tin lamps, old locks and keys, 
“translated” boots, “faked” hats, worn-out door handles, 
for the bargain hunters. But at this hour business had not 
begun: the girls were still in the factories, the men had not 
struck work, the marketing hour was not yet; and proprie- 
tors, dressing their tail boards, hanging their naphtha-flares 
in position, or sweeping fish refuse into the gutters, looked 
with no unfriendly eye upon the bareheaded preacher. His 
jaw would attract rather than interfere with trade. One or 
two proprietors were even listening, and had left their wares 
in charge of assistants. For the rest, the assembly by the 

93 


94 


The Ragged Messenger 

lamp -post consisted of loafers, hangers-on to costermongers, 
corner-men from the adjacent public-houses, and lounging 
laborers finishing their day’s round in search of employment. 
Behind and about the knot of listeners prowled boys and 
lads, the ape-like children of the gutter, quick of foot, watch- 
ful of eye, mischievous of mind. 

Listening dully and silently, the little crowd ebbed and 
flowed, but grew in volume. Now and then there was an 
interruption, a jeering shout from the background of vague 
faces. “ Cheese it! Cheese it! Chuck us a brown, guv- 
nor.” From the main thoroughfare, at a little distance, 
came the steady rumbling noise of the traffic and faint cries 
from the street-sellers, stationary hawkers of “ Penny 
Notions.” 

A respectably dressed, middle-aged man was standing on 
the outskirts of the congregation. He was a thick-set, gray- 
haired man in felt hat and covert coat — a man of another and 
far superior class to that of the people about him. While 
listening, he had been watching the congregation rather 
than the preacher; and suddenly, as a fresh band of loafers, 
a dozen lads and men, joined the crowd, he turned and hur- 
ried away. Hurrying through a narrow court and out into 
a side street, in a couple of hundred yards he had reached the 
police station. Without a word to two constables in the 
big charge-room, he walked across to the office on the far 
side of the room. A glance through the office window 
show r ed him the Inspector warming his back at the office 
fire, and, without inquiry or hesitation, he pushed the door 
of the office and walked inside. 

“ Good-day to you,” he said to the Inspector; “ I am Mr. 
Griffiths— R. J. Griffiths, late of the C. I., late S. D. Inspec- 
tor, Southwark. I know you, I think. Morgan? Yes. 
You were at Lambeth in eighty-eight ? Yes,” and he and 
the Inspector shook hands. 

“I want you to do me a kindness. Let me have two 
of your reserves — plain clothes— at once — ” Mr. Griffiths 


95 


The Ragged Messenger 

spoke hurriedly, but firmly. “There ’s a man preaching at 
the corner of Frederick Street. He ’ll be in a fix inside of 
ten minutes. I want to get him out of it without a barney. 
I ’m interested in him.” 

A station sergeant with a paper-form in his hand was 
dictating to a section sergeant who sat writing at a table, 
and he looked round and spoke to his superior officer. 

“That ’s all right, sir. It ’s the old Messar.” 

“What, the mad Messar of Petticoat Fane? ’’ and the In- 
spector chuckled. “ Oh, he 's all right. Him as the papers 
have been gassing about, you now — come into all the 
money. But that ’s all Tommy rot, I take it. He ’s bin 
back at his old tricks these last few days, and it is n’t 
likely ” 

“ Never mind all that,” said Mr. Griffiths. “ I ask it as 
a personal favor. L,et me have two of your men.’’ 

“ I tell you,” said the Inspector, rather pompously, “ he ’s 
right enough. He knows his way about. He ain’t going 
to come to any harm. Nobody’s going to interfere with him.” 

“ Oh, yes, they are! ” 

“Why, he ’s bin about this division off and on — six years 
or more. We run him in twice at first. But we had the tip 
from headquarters to let him alone, and he ain’t caused us 
any trouble since.” 

“Yes, but to oblige me.” 

“ Oh, to oblige you — look here,” and the Inspector called 
to one of the constables. “I ’ll send a man down ” 

“ No— I don’t want that. I don’t want a man in uniform. 
I don’t want a fuss. I want to get him away quietly.” 

“There is n’t going to be any fuss. Why, he ’s rather a 
fav’rite. He goes among ’em just as he likes. Mad Messar 
they call him: seem to make a pet of him — in a way. Any- 
how, nobody interferes with him — not the roughest of ’em.” 

“ Yes, yes, but it ’s different now. They think he ’s got 
money with him. I tell you I know what I ’m talking 
about. . . . Don’t refuse me, Morgan; I ask it as a per- 


9 6 


The Ragged Messenger 

sonal favor. Get me a cab — hansom — from the rank in the 
High Street. Let two of your reserves take it to the corner 
of Frederick Street, and when the row begins I ’ll bring him 
to it. If I can’t get him through, I ’ll whistle, and they 
must come and help me. If I don’t whistle — stay by the 
cab- wheels. Sharp’s the word, eh, old man? . 

Thanks. I ’m much obliged to you.” 

And Mr. Griffiths shook hands with the Inspector and 
hurried away. 

There were many more people: the congregation increas- 
ing in numbers had deteriorated in quality and in manners. 
They were very thick in the front ranks round the lamp- 
post. Not without protest, Mr. Griffiths elbowed his way to 
a position within six feet of the bareheaded preacher, and 
looked about him. Young loafers, coster-lads of eighteen to 
twentj^, the most battered of the “corner-men,” the shabbiest 
of the laborers, some narrow-chested, undersized Jew-dealers 
from Wentworth Street or ‘ ‘ the Lane. ’ ’ The superior costers 
had returned to their wares, unable to hear, and not caring 
for the squash. The congregation were listening no longer, 
but chaffing, ragging, being “ funny ” — drowning the strong 
voice with their combined chorus. 

“ Messar! Messar! Chuck us a sov’ring! Fling us ‘arf 
a quid. J ’ear us a-calling? Messah ! Chuck us a quid. 
Chuck us some whites to scrap for — Messah ! For Chroistie’s 
sake — fling us a quid — A young man was cutting antics, 
stretching forward with his bawling mouth just below the 
book — “Ave a shy and knock me eyeballs out. — Messar! 
’Kre ’s old Aunt Sally.” 

They drowned his strong voice: only stray words could be 
caught above the hoarse cries. 

The Star — there now — follow it — I tell you — He — listen 
— believe it — He is here — now — believe ” 

Close by, in the press, a white-faced lad had offended a 

girl. “ Toike yer ’and away — you ! ” and she yelled out 

a foul string of oaths and obscenity — screaming in anger. 


97 


The Ragged Messenger 

A gallant friend placed his dirty fist at her service. Griffiths 
saw the girl force out a space for elbow room, and the up- 
turned face of the young man go back and down beneath the 
blow, while indignant spectators, incommoded by his fall, 
punched at him as he sank. He was up in a moment wiping 
away blood with the back of a dingy hand, sniffing at inter- 
vals, but making nothing of the incident, unable to reach his 
assailant had he wished to do so. It was less than nothing 
to everybody else: the little flare of savagery — two hounds 
in the pack snarling and tearing at each other for a moment 
while the other hounds go on feeding. 

Still striving to catch the words as they floated above his 
head, Mr. Griffiths kept his shrewd eyes upon his company. 
Bestially ignorant of the sacred matters poured forth by the 
preacher, they mocked and jeered, but were not, in the bulk, 
unfriendly. Only here and there were the dangerous faces, 
ready for mischief in a moment; and perhaps a dozen sneak- 
thieves, with three or four of the true criminal class waiting 
to hatch the mischief and to profit by it. 

There was one artisan, plumber, or glazier; entirely differ- 
ent from the rest; from a higher plane of intelligence and 
education. Small, cantankerous, with drink-anger tran- 
siently inflaming his grimy face, he knew very well the mean- 
ing of words. He was baiting a couple of Jews, poor general 
dealers from Middlesex Street, who gaped at his elbow. 

“ Why don’t ye ’ail him — King of the Jews? ” 

But they took no notice, giving way as he jerked his 
elbow into the chest of one of them. 

“ Go on. ’Ail him. ’Ail him, ye lousy Jews, don’t I tell 
yer — ’Ail him King.” 

But they showed no sport; refused to be drawn — not 
understanding probably; and wriggled away to find a pleas- 
anter neighbor. Then, as though in a sudden drink-fury, 
the little man yelled at the preacher. 

“ fine King of the Jews, ain’t he? Hit the 

the head and stop his chin- music.” 


over 


9 8 


The Ragged Messenger 

All at once something was thrown — cabbage stalks, what 
not — a bit of board, some spattering mud. 

Morton stood with open arms, looking down upon them, 
mutely appealing with wondering eyes. But a rush was 
made; a box was knocked away, the book fell, and he was 
forced to spring down to save himself from falling also. It 
had been a rush from behind, a charge of the boys; the 
ducking and darting gutter apes, so mean and contemptible 
a monkey each one, but able under propitious conditions— 
as police records prove — to swarm a strong man to death if 
they once get him down. 

Griffiths had picked up the book, given Morton his hat, 
and was holding his arm. 

“lama policeman, sir — quick — let me steer you to your 
cab — stand back now,” and he trampled on toes and butted 
with his shoulder. 

‘‘Policeman? No, no. I am among friends,” and Mor- 
ton shouted loudly. ‘‘Am I not among friends — friends — all 
of you ? ” 

But hands were fumbling about his neck. He could feel 
the base fingers at his waist boldly searching; he saw the 
cheap Swiss watch flash from his pocket, the steel watch- 
guard broken, and then snatched at again and again, as 
the pressure of the mob drove him back; and he ceased 
to protest. Driven, almost carried, by the weight of the 
throng, he and Griffiths, as it seemed, were swept round 
the corner and into the waiting cab. The man at either 
wheel leaped to the horse’s head, forced a passage and 
then dropped aside, and in a moment the cab was rattling 
away. 

As the cab turned out of Commercial Street, Morton took 
off his hat again, ran his hand through his hair, and, glanc- 
ing in the glass at his disordered neck-tie, felt for and found 
the hidden chain still safe beneath his waistcoat. His face 
was flushed, and his lips trembled as he turned to his 
companion. 


99 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ My own people! I can’t understand. I am sorry that 
you should have seen this. Don’t judge them harshly. I ’ll 
find an explanation. It ’s all new, all strange. 

Whither are you taking me ? ’ ’ 

“ Wherever you like, sir. I told him to go west.” 

Morton looked at him in a vague surprise. 

‘ ‘ Who sent you ? A policeman ? Whence ? Whose mes- 
senger are you ? ’ ’ 

Mr. Griffiths explained his presence very diffidently. He 
was not now a policeman, but had purposely used the word 
to convey rapidly the idea of an assistant of the law in case 
of need. He was, in fact, an ex-detective, who, in retiring, 
had naturally lost the right to call himself a member of the 
force. He was now what people term a private inquiry 
agent — a name which covered a considerable body of men 
with unfortunately some very “doubtful customers” among 
them. He was the detective who had been employed by 
Messrs. Norman and George to discover Mr. Morton’s Lon- 
don address. 

“I concluded that investigation,” said Mr. Griffiths, with 
a smile, “and delivered the necessary information in two 
hours and twenty-three minutes from the receipt of my 
instructions.” 

Since then, said Mr. Griffiths, he had read in all the papers 
with increasing interest all that the papers had to say about 
a gentleman whose fame had in the way of business been 
made familiar to him. “ One link in life leads to another, 
does n’t it, sir ? ” If he might venture to say so, Mr. Mor- 
ton was world-famous now; and he coughed — “ I am not a 
busy man, sir, and reading about you, and thinking about 
it all, I confess I have taken the liberty of following you on 
one or two occasions lately. I think you have made three 
public addresses this week — Cable Street, outside the Cam- 
bridge Theatre of Varieties, and the corner just now. . . . 
Yes! I was present, sir, at each — listening. Listening 
attentively. You pardon the liberty, sir ? ” 


l.of C. 


IOO 


The Ragged Messenger 

‘ ‘ Pardon ? For listening ? Why speak the words, if not 
for listeners ? But they would n’t listen. My own people! ” 

‘ ‘ There were some rum ones there to-day, sir. I should n’t 
exactly, from what I have observed, call them your own 
people. A few strangers, a tough lot — full of the talk of the 
money, sir. Not your old lot.” 

‘ ‘ You ’ re right, ’ ’ said Morton, eagerly. ‘ ‘ Strangers. All 
strangers. Deaf as yet ’ ’ 

“Observing what I did, I ventured, sir, to have a cab 
handy. A liberty, I know. But you don’t mind, I hope, 
sir.” 

“Dear fellow, I thank you,” and Morton shook hands 
with him. Then, through the roof, he spoke to the driver. 
— “Stop at the Metropolitan Station. . . . It was well 

thought of — and you acted as well as thought. I am grate- 
ful. But I must go home — to my wife. I promised. Come, 
too — I ’d like to talk to you. Come home and drink tea 
with us. My wife will be waiting.” 

“Iam deeply honored — touched — by your asking me, sir. 
But I won’t trespass upon ” 

“Come,” said Morton. “ I want to talk to you.” 

At the Bishopsgate Street Station, Morton took two third- 
class tickets for Gower Street; and, till their train came, 
paced the platform arm in arm with his new acquaintance. 

“ I am thinking, Griffiths. Yes, thinking, Griffiths. You 
see I ’ve not forgotten your name. You never told it to me. 
But I heard it that day. Yes,” after a rapid glance at the 
ex- detective’s attentive face, “ I like your steady eyes. Yes. 
There was a most unhappy woman — in Liverpool — a woman 
I must find — our train? Yes. Come — this way. I saw an 
empty carriage. We ’ll have a compartment to ourselves. 
You don’t want to smoke ? ” 

This woman, he told Griffiths in the train, had been the 
companion of his cousin, but had disappeared. It was nec- 
essary to his comfort that he should be able to put his hand 
upon the poor wanderer. “A debt to pay, Griffiths, for a 


The Ragged Messenger 


IOI 


dead hand.” It was horrible to think of her in want. But 
as yet — and time was going on— there had been no response 
to his advertisement, to the widely published appeal to her 
to go to Kssex Street and hear of something to her advantage. 

“Expensive advertisements, Griffiths. Much money 
wasted and bringing us only rogues and impostors.” 

“No sign from her, sir ? It ’s odd.” 

“Yes. And I have been wrong in submitting to delay. 
I have thought of other things — I have been wrong, I must 
act. Now I have thought if you ” 

Suddenly, as the train stopped at a station, the carriage 
was invaded by a gang of bricklayers and their laborers. 
Dusty, toil-stained, with damp clay upon their boots and 
trousers, one with an injured shovel, one with an injured 
finger — the day’s damage to stock in trade — the men came 
tumbling in, eight of them, filling each seat. Then two 
more to stand. “ Room for a littl’ ’un, eh ? ” and “ I don’t 
mean to be left be’ind, mate.” 

Not a pleasant interruption, thought Griffiths, to a con- 
fidential chat — all these unexpected, noisy, clothes-imperil- 
ling companions; but he observed that Morton’s smile of 
welcome seemed unforced, and that one of them responded 
to it as genuine with a nod as though to an old friend. 

“ Bit of glass in a brick ? ” 

The man with the broken finger had secured the corner 
by the window opposite, and Morton was pointing to the 
blood-stained handkerchief wrapped as a bandage about the 
left hand. 

“Bit of something sharp. I never looked — ’t ain’t any- 
thing. Strap it when I get home.” 

And, in a moment, the unit of labor and the man who 
could, if he chose, command its countless armies were chat- 
ting amicably in the low-toned frankness of old comrades. 

The bandaged man and the others were engaged upon a 
railway repairing job — the brickwork piers, “the scarpment” 
of an embankment. They were working for the company, 


102 


The Ragged Messenger 

not for a contractor; and this meant long hours, “ outside of 
the agreement, you know.” He could not say about the 
others, but for him it would be over in another ten days, and 
then he would be “ out again,” and the branch of his union 
would be regarding him without much kindness as one who 
came from work under a “ private firm,” and who, while 
reporting it, had submitted to a fifty-three hours’ week. 

He lived at Notting Hill, and soon he was describing his 
home and his family. 

Mr. Griffiths, occupied with his own thoughts, for a time 
ceased to listen. When he gave his attention the man was 
describing an accident to one of his children. 

“ Our room ’s on the first floor, you ’ll understand. Fair- 
sized yard there is, and the kids from the ground floor was 
playing, our young ’un watching ’em. The office is just be- 
low our window — no treat in summer — slate roof, lean-to. 
Stretching like, to see the kids’ game, poo’ little bloke goes 
— over tip. Pitched on the office roof, then down ag’in. 
Kids bolted — fairly scared — thought they ’d get the belt from 
some one. Poo’ little bloke lay there — hours. Never cried 
out. No one knew, till his mother come home and found 
him — carried him up and laid him down. He ain’t moved 
since. Back wrong.” 

The bricklayer was looking out of the window as though 
examining the lining of the tunnel, or counting the pieces 
of gauge-work as the crowns of the shelter- arches flitted by 
on the faintly illumined wall. 

“Poo’ little bloke!” he said again, still watching the 
brickwork. “Well, there ’s a little cripple in a many 
homes — a most of ’em, perhaps, if you come to look round.” 

Morton had laid his hand on the man’s knee. 

“ Do you mind giving me your address ? I know of some 
work — some big jobs. I ’ll write to you about it by the 
time you ’re done with the railway people. . . . Here, 

on this envelope — I get out at Gower Street.” 

“ Good-night, sir,” said the man, as Morton shook hands 


The Ragged Messenger 103 

with him — “and thank you kindly, sir, — if you should be 
able, sir.” 

It was the first time he had said “ sir,” and his tone of 
perfect equality had vanished. It was as though the soldier 
of labor saluted a hitherto unsuspected captain. 

Mrs. Morton was sitting in the window of the front room 
of the Bloomsbury lodgings, looking out into the lamp-lit 
street, lost in the mazes of her own thoughts, or dreaming 
about the unknown men and women hurrying by on their 
unknown errands. She came slowly forward to welcome 
her husband and his companion; showed no surprise at the 
arrival of a stranger; and at once busied herself with her 
duties as wife and hostess. Hats and coats were put on 
chairs; another gas-jet was lighted in the central gasalier; 
the lodging-house maid laid a cloth across one end of the 
dining-table, brought in the tea-tray, and knelt to produce 
sugar and half a cake from the lower shelf of the mahogany 
chiffonier; and soon the hosts and guest were seated at the 
friendly meal. 

“ And who do you think Mr. Griffiths is?” said Morton, 
gaily. “A most famous detective! ” 

“A detective ! How interesting,” said Mrs. Morton, cut- 
ting a slice of cake and offering it to the interesting visitor 
with a smile. 

“He found me in two hours and twenty-three minutes. 
Like finding the Archbishop of Canterbury, eh, Griffiths?” 
and he laughed and rubbed his hands together. “And 
now ” — speaking with a serious voice again — “ he is going 
to help me to find that most unhappy woman.” 

“Yes?” and Mrs. Morton glanced at the thoughtful and 
silent visitor as he crumbled his cake upon the broken-edged 
lodging-house plate. 

“We must have no more delay,” said Morton. “ I have 
been wrong to let the weeks fly by. We must get to work, 
Griffiths.” 


104 The Ragged Messenger 

“ I am at your service, sir.” 

Mr. Griffiths was very thoughtful. He bowed to Mrs. 
Morton as she filled his cup. He bowed after each little act 
of courtesy from a watchful hostess, but he seemed absent- 
minded, preoccupied, or unduly oppressed by the honor he 
was receiving. Without seeming to look at anything, he 
had perceived and mentally recorded the general aspect of 
his surroundings, rather than each commonplace detail; and 
more and more he wondered. Nothing graceful or costly 
added, to give a hint of the power of the inmates of the 
shabby room! Wonderful! And this was the man for 
whom the papers said the widespread magnificence of Wilt- 
shire House had proved all too small. 

“ Perhaps you are setting Mr. Griffiths an impossible 
task ? * ’ 

His hostess was looking at him with polite interrogation 
in her dark eyes; and by an effort, as it seemed, he roused 
himself to reply. 

“ It should not prove very difficult, madam. I ought to 
be able to find her easily.” 

“ But suppose — as I often tell my husband — she is dead.” 

“ Then I ought to be able to find her grave.” 

He spoke hesitatingly, absent-mindedly; but, after some 
questions from Morton, he seemed to make another, and this 
time a successful effort to come down from the clouds and 
attend to business. 

“You see, sir — from what you tell me — it all points one 
way, ’ ’ and he spoke now as an alert man of business, speak- 
ing of his own trade, using his own words, and standing firm 
on his own ground. “Never guess! That ’s our watch- 
word. Find out. But an opinion — for what it ’s worth. 
You know what that is, sir— nothing! Well. No answer 
to your ads. ! Did you try the New York papers ? She came 
from America. She would go back there. Probably lifted 
a few trinkets — rings, pins, anything handy; pledged suffi- 
cient for her berth, and sailed. At Liverpool, there ’s the 


The Ragged Messenger 105 

doctors, solicitors. — There were solicitors, I think you said — 
the nurses, the waiters, the pawnbrokers, the boat people, 
the boat itself; the cabin she occupied, or shared with 
others, the stewardess who waited on her ” — Mr. Griffiths 
shrugged his broad shoulders. “ It might take time— more 
than two and a half hours, sir — months, perhaps. But it 
would be the class of investigation which I call ‘ narrowing 
down’ — the class of investigation which can’t very well fail 
of the desired result.” 

Tate that evening, as Mr. and Mrs. Morton sat by their 
hired hearth, the maid brought in a letter which had just 
been left at the door. Envelope and paper bore the words 
“ Strictly Private,” deeply underscored. The writer’s ad- 
dress was Cedar Villa, No. 78 Felixstowe Road, Lambeth. 
Before reading the letter Morton glanced at the signature: 
R. J. Griffiths. 

“Sir,” said Mr. Griffiths, “ I write to ask a favor, and I 
will endeavor to be as brief as possible. My record in the 
force was twenty-nine years without a bad mark. I was 
Sub- Divisional Inspr. Southwark (M.) three years, four 
months, from 1887 to 1890; then in Criminal Investigation 
Department, New Scotland Yard, until retired two years 
ago. I am fifty-one years of age, widower, and member of 
the Church of England; and have lost no opportunities to 
improve myself in education. May I assist you in your 
work ? I think I could be of use to you in many ways; as 
go-between in necessary inquiries, and as guard against im- 
position from unworthy people in your alms-giving. The 
truth of above statement of facts would, of course, be forth- 
coming at headquarters (N. S. Yard); and, to a gentleman 
like yourself, I think a point would be stretched to give per- 
sonal character orally, if not in writing. 

“My dear wife was my superior by birth and circum- 
stances, with many influential friends, by whose good offices 
on my behalf I was passed to the C. I. Dept, as a very un- 


106 The Ragged Messenger 

usual favor, after a severe illness traceable to course of duties 
in a time of pressure. I beg to state further that my dear 
wife was possessed of private means, and by her generous pro- 
vision and my own pension, I am for my humble position in 
the world more than well off. But I am practically alone in 
the world, sir, and if, after investigation, you honor me by 
accepting my services it would fill up my time, and be a labor 
of love as it is termed. 

“For above reasons I would wish it to be understood that 
I do not desire payment for the same (excepting in the 
search you have entrusted me with, out of pocket expenses). 
I ask it as a favor, not as seeking a job; but would beg that 
this might never be mentioned, since I would prefer people 
to suppose I was paid — as making it easier for me to get on 
with any other paid servants of yours that I may be in con- 
tact with. 

“ If I may without offence say so, I w T ould like, sir, to say 
I have been touched by your words when preaching on two 
last occasions, and deeply touched to-day by your kind man- 
ner to myself and to others. I have never been an irreligious 
man, though not a church-goer, and listening as I have done, 
I venture, sir, to state, I now firmly believe in the truth of 
your message. — Your obedient servant, 

“ R. J. Griffiths.” 

Morton waved the letter above his head, then sprang to 
his feet. 

“What is it ? ” and Mrs. Morton looked up from her book. 

His eyes were moist, but shone with triumphant pleasure. 
The brick-dust red glowed in dusky patches about his cheek- 
bones. 

‘ ‘ Another follower has come to me. A follower — in my 
doubt — when I felt all was slipping. Griffiths — that dear 
fellow — has heard the call, and henceforth follows! ” 


IX 

I N this manner Mr. Griffiths, late of the Metropolitan Po- 
lice Force, obtained that post so craved for by “darling 
Archie” of White’s and the Turf Club; and, after the cor- 
roboration of his statements and a handsome testimonial to 
character at “ headquarters,” was duly licensed to attack the 
task of saving the great new millionaire from imposition. 

“ But no more ‘shadowing,’ Griffiths. I must go about 
my work with no shadow but my own. Eet me see your 
listening face, as often as you can, while I speak the words. 
But the words would falter if I thought your eyes watched 
me unseen. Don’t fail me in this. I must walk free. I ’ll 
have no bodyguard.” 

Early in the morning the millionaire went about his work, 
and did not return from his work until the dusk of the win- 
ter evenings. And all day long, the millionaire’s wife, sit- 
ting reading and musing alone, was besieged by visitors: 
clerks from Essex Street with sealed packets, clerks from 
Mr. Carpenter with more plans, auctioneers’ clerks, estate- 
agents’ clerks, printers with packets of proofs and letter- 
forms. These were visitors for Mr. Morton, and they filled 
the narrow hall with their packages and went away. But 
with them, hour after hour, came those who would not go 
away; who, failing to see the husband, implored a few mo- 
ments’ conversation with the wife. They had found him 
out, the eager seekers: newspaper men, the clergy of the 
west central district and their deacons and deaconesses, mis- 
sionaries, parish nurses, Salvation Army, Church Army, 

107 


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The Ragged Messenger 

tradesmen’s touts, photographers, reciters, typewriters, 
workers and idlers, beggars, busybodies, and chance va- 
grants from the open street. Already the house was famous 
among all other lodging-houses. But for the presence of the 
newly placed ‘ ‘ fixed point ’ ’ at the nearest corner, the lodg- 
ing-house maids could not have held the door against the 
worst of the besiegers. 

“It is not in my power to assist you,” said the million- 
aire’s wife in cold, dry tones to those lady-visitors of the 
district — visitors by profession who were accustomed to force 
entries, and who were not to be baffled here. “You had 
better write to my husband.” 

As yet Mrs. Morton had no friends to help her through 
the stretching hours of the long, dull days. Except for brief 
strolls about the Bloomsbury squares, to Mudie’s for more 
novels, to the Tottenham Court Road chemist for patent 
headache-medicine, to a glover’s in New Oxford Street for 
another pair of the black suede gloves, she hardly ever left 
the shabby front room. Morton, coming home flushed and 
braced by the keen east winds, reproached her for her stay- 
at-home habits, and, holding her by the shoulders, looked at 
her pale face with wistful tenderness. 

“ This life is too lonely for you — but only for a little more. 
We ’ll have our fine new house by Lady Day.” 

Mrs. Morton smiled and settled herself in her chair by the 
fire with the new novel. 

“Has Lady Sarah been to-day? . . . Ah — Lady 

Sarah! She must take you out — I will ask her.” 

But Mrs. Morton would not consent to this proposal. 
Lady Sarah did not really like her. She was sure of it. 
Lady Sarah came to see him only — about the work. Lady 
Sarah made her feel always that she was in the w r ay. She 
could not be frigidly patronized by Lady Sarah. 

Morton, standing by the fireside, stooped and took her 
hand in his. 

“Then come with me. Let me have you by my side now 


109 


The Ragged Messenger 

and then, as I go about my work — you said you would help 
me. My darling, come with me.” 

Yes, Mrs. Morton w r ould go with him; but not with Lady 
Sarah. 

On one of these expeditions he bought a present for her — 
a new coat. It was a bright, cold afternoon towards the end 
of January; and, as they walked along the north side of Bed- 
ford Square, the wind, blowing from the dismal country 
where his people dwelt, stabbed them in the face with its 
sharp wind-daggers. Morton pointed across the square to 
a house with an auctioneer’s board standing high above the 
area railings. 

“ Look. They have not removed the board; but it ’s our 
house. All signed and sealed! They could not back out 
now if they wanted to. For your sake I wish they would 
have given us possession at once. There ’s nothing to do. 
It ’s in splendid condition.” And, as they walked on, he 
described the attractions of their new home. A noble old 
house it seemed to his mind: spacious and solid and airy, 
double the size of the adjacent houses; big rooms and wide 
passages; heavy doors and stout window-sashes; any number 
of lofty, well-cupboarded bedrooms; a house built before the 
days of scamped brickwork and imported joinery “for some 
great nobleman like Patrington.” 

“ Think of it ! A house of her own for my dear to be 
proud of.” 

Mrs. Morton shivered in her short sailor jacket. 

“ You are cold. You are too thinly clad for our errand.” 
And he stopped and turned. “ I must get my darling a fine 
new coat. I have seen it in the shop window. I had n’t 
time, or I would have brought it home as a surprise. A 
glorious warm robe to wrap my queen in.” 

He glanced at his watch, another Swiss import with which 
he had replaced the lost one, and then hurried back with 
her northwestward to the Hampstead Road. 

In a window of the vast cheap shop he showed her the 


I IO 


The Ragged Messenger 

queenly robe; and then, holding her arm still, hurried her 
into the building. 

“ Upstairs, sir, to the mantle department,” said the shop- 
walker. 

“ No,” said Morton, resolutely, “ I want the one in the 
window.” 

“ Plenty like it upstairs, sir, to select a perfect fit for 
madam.” 

Arm in arm, they were conducted through the shop and 
up the wide stairway, past cheap toys, tawdry fancy goods, 
shiny, sticky furniture, gilt-framed oleographs; by counters 
piled with servant-girl millinery; through avenues of flannel 
dressing-gowns, gay blouses, slips, and “ neck finishes,” to 
the far-off mantles. From the glass dome above their heads 
hung the flags of the nations, lengths of blanketing, cre- 
tonnes, and window-curtains. With them and about them 
surged the wandering multitude of the great shop’s custom- 
ers; pushing, fingering, “pricing the articles”; nudging 
each other, drifting away, talking it over, and drifting back 
to buy. Women all, of the humblest class, but all respect- 
able; grimy householders in the cover- slut marketing ulster, 
carrying a not too clean bag in one hand, trailing a not too 
clean child in the other. 

“The lady look thuperb in this one,” said the bustling 
Jew salesman who presided over the mantles. Then, as Mrs. 
Morton glanced at her reflection in the big, dull glass, he 
added vauntingly: 

“ There ’s nothing like it this side of Regent Street.” 

There was certainly nothing like it on the other side. It 
was a long frieze coat and cape of a mustardy drab color, 
lined with the cheapest Italian cloth of the same tint. The 
collar was of crimson cloth, and some inches of imitation 
satin inside the cape repeated the crimson magnificence as 
the wings of the cape turned or opened over the frieze-clad 
arms. Huge smoked pearl buttons and a crimson echo in 
narrow piping about the pockets and cuffs added a further 


1 1 1 


The Ragged Messenger 

glory. As Mrs. Morton turned to and fro before the big 
glass, the lightly-tacked stiffening between the outer material 
and the lining, above each shoulder and about the neck, 
crackled ominously. It was the typical product of the 
quick-devising Jewish brain which notes the trend of public 
taste, and of the busy East- End hands in the crowded East- 
End workrooms relentlessly driven to give form to the guid- 
ing thought. It was the flashy, dirt-cheap article which all 
this winter had gone with a rush, and which, already 
bagging, sagging, and shapeless, dotted the northern streets 
with its evanescent flash as it drooped about the various 
figures of its many purchasers. 

Nevertheless, to Mr. Morton it was all that a fashionable 
coat should be, and, as with his own hands he buttoned the 
big smoked pearls, his eyes lingered lovingly on coat and 
wearer ere he took his wife in his arms, and before all the 
world of the mantles kissed her. 

“And he deserveth a kiss for this, madam,’ ’ said the Jew 
salesman, effusively. 

But then came a slight difficulty. The multi-millionaire, 
probing his old leather pouch, could not find enough money 
to pay the modest bill. The shop knew the name very well 
— very well, indeed; but a name — well, a name was only a 
name, though it were one to conjure with when the identity 
of him who used it should be once proved. The shop would 
send the article to the address of madam; but they could 
scarcely allow madam to take it away in exchange for a well- 
worn American, slop-made, sailor jacket. In the cashiers’ 
office, the shop’s doubt was dissipated by a bundle of letters 
from Mr. Morton’s pocket: scrutiny being invited of one 
from the firm in Essex Street. Then the shop, realizing the 
wonder of truth, and holding it stranger and better than any 
fiction, prostrated itself in fawning obeisance as the lady and 
the cloak walked out together. 

From the shop they continued their eastward journey by 
means of the Metropolitan Railway. Morton bought second- 


I 12 


The Ragged Messenger 

class tickets to-day; and in tunnel or station, throughout the 
train’s slow progress to Aldgate, he talked to his silent wife 
of his varied schemes — changing from one project to another 
rapidly and perplexingly, indicating a whole series of future 
operations in half a dozen words, or dwelling long on a single 
detail. 

‘ ‘ I am moving at last — at last. It is all the delay that 
makes one toss and turn by night. I shall sleep sounder 
and sounder as the work goes forward — breathe more freely 
for each onward step. It ’s the weight of our burden that 
makes me dull and thoughtful. But I ’ll be gayer soon. 
Mary, you never saw a man with a load on his back tarrying 
to talk and make merry. Down with the sack first, then 
the laughter, eh ? . . . But you help me to carry it, my 

love. You are helping me now. The music and the light! 
Do you remember ? They are all about me now. . . . 

“ We are going to one of my black spots. But I mean to 
make it white. We ’ll chase the shadows, Mary, with the 
sunlight that I am buying. The air shall be our servant, 
and we ’ll wash the black spots white.” 

The black spot which was the end of their journey this 
afternoon lay near the river, below the old boundary of the 
parish of St. George-in-the-East, and a little way above 
Wapping High Street. A ride in the tram carried them to 
the corner of Cannon Street Road, down which they walked: 
and every step seemed to take them to a more sombre 
wretchedness. At first there was life in the foreigners’ 
shops, the bright colors that the Hebrew race love to show, 
people on the pavements talking together in German or Pol- 
ish, fat Jews lounging in doorways reading Jewish news- 
papers, the odor of fried fish in the cold air; but soon after 
they had passed the stone church all signs of animation 
seemed to fade and give place to stagnant despair. There 
was a flicker of life again in St. George’s Street— some fac- 
tory vans, a group of dock laborers and loafers, a sailor in a 
blue jersey with a clean canvas bag over his shoulder; but 


The Ragged Messenger 113 

Old Gravel Dane was terrible— black, empty, abjectly miser- 
able. 

They crossed the swing bridge at the dock, where the coal- 
stained water opened out on either hand, showing barges, 
tugs, the red-striped funnels of large cargo steamers, and, 
behind, the masts of sailing ships; and where the keen wind, 
sharpening its edge on the wide surface of the water, cut 
and gashed at face and eyes until one reached the shelter of 
the stupendous walls of the dock- warehouses just below the 
bridge. Here, they turned to the right and, still facing the 
unseen river, began to thread their way through an intoler- 
ably dismal labyrinth of narrow lanes and alleys. Down 
still towards the river he led her through seemingly endless 
streets of squalid, desolate poverty; and in a street more 
desolate than all the rest he stopped in front of a wide, low 
arch. 

“ Mine !’* he whispered — “ Ours ! ” and he waved his arm 
towards the narrow pavement and the crumbling bricks, 
patched and gaping woodwork, and rag-filled window-panes. 
“ Two steps and you stand upon the ground we own ”; and 
he led her beneath the dark arch. “ They don’t know; they 
must n’t know yet.” 

Under the low archway no carriage could have driven, 
but the dark entry admirably served the purpose for which 
it was contrived; the passage of costermongers’ barrows. 
Half a dozen of these barrows stood on one side of the little 
court, beneath a crazy old shed supported or threatened by 
the bulging walls of the houses to left and right. They 
formed the stock of a single proprietor, a letter- out of bar- 
rows to the humblest street traders — the loafers who for a 
day, a week, or a month could lift themselves in the social 
scale to this level of respectability; or the regular hands who 
for want of capital remained in the thralls of this hire system, 
understanding as well as a great railway company, and as 
powerless to prevent, the eating up of gross returns by ex- 
cessive expenditure upon rolling stock. The doors of the 


1 14 The Ragged Messenger 

shed stood open now, but chains and rusty padlocks and 
some iron cross-bars indicated that precautions were taken 
by night. The end of the court was blocked by a high blank 
wall. This was the back of a lodging-house with its front 
door in another street. The rough pavement of the court 
sloping to a central gutter was broken in a hundred places, 
and through each gap a black ooze of mud rose and trickled 
over the stones. In the gutters, and about the central drain- 
trap, lay refuse or drainage indescribable and appalling, it 
would seem to all, except to some mangy cats who were 
picking it over, and who scampered away with arched backs 
and stiff tails at the approach of visitors. The houses to the 
right seemed to have settled down at least a foot beneath 
their original level; and through and over the broken thresh- 
olds it seemed that the black surface- drainage returned home 
again, to wander or subside in noxious rivulets and pools 
upon the decaying planks of the narrow passage by the foot 
of each staircase. Not, perhaps, twenty years old, these 
dwellings, like many of their inmates, had fallen into a pre- 
mature decay; the mortar had tumbled out, the wretched 
stock bricks themselves had crumbled and chipped until 
many of the doorways were in ruins. About others, at the 
height of a man’s elbow, the crumbling brickwork had been 
smoothed and polished into a horrible imitation of black 
marble by the rubbing and brushing of dirty arms and dirty 
bundles. 

“ Hold your skirts and your cloak close round your 
ankles,” Morton whispered, “and keep away from the walls. 
Upstairs. A maimed child for whom I bring hope.” 

It was very dark; the heavy, stagnant air turned one sick; 
from beneath unseen doors there crept intolerable odors. 
She stumbled at the top of the staircase. The lower panels 
of a door had been kicked inwards, not recently. The 
marble polish showed on the edges of the wood, and through 
the largest gap she could see feathers of poultry, rags, and 
shreds of sacking; and a man’s bare foot. Men’s growling 


‘5 


The Ragged Messenger i 

voices sounded like the grumbling of unclean beasts in the 
torment of a narrow den. 

Morton tapped with his hand and called through the door: 

“ I am here. I have come to keep my promise.” 

The growling voices ceased; a woman opened the door; 
and Morton stood aside to allow his wife to enter. 

The open door showed the little room in a curious gray 
twilight. On a heap of rags and rubbish by the fireless 
hearth an old man was squatting, busily working with 
paper and glue upon a pile of battered hats, collected from 
dust-bins, or gleaned from the harvest of the streets: two 
half-naked children watched him open-eyed, and seemed to 
be acting as assistants to his task. At a bench beneath the 
tightly sealed window, a redded girl of thirteen or fourteen 
was making match-boxes. The other man with the bare 
feet was gray and wizened and hairy: a man like a rat. 
Upon the low bed — across the end of it — lay another child 
covered with a sack, except the face, which was nearly hid- 
den by loathsome sores. But for bed and bench there seemed 
no furniture of any kind. Black walls, black floor, refuse 
and filth, and a gray twilight filled by these human ghosts, 
living and laboring and making a stench as of foul beasts in 
a twilight den! 

“ I can’t — I can’t go in.” 

Mrs. Morton had turned to her husband and spoken the 
words in a choking whisper. 

“ L,et me go. I can’t stand it.” 

She seemed as though about to swoon, but his arm was 
round her, and he supported, almost carried, her down the 
steep stairs to the external air. 

“ I know— I know, my darling,” he said gently. “ The 
spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. There ’s a shop I 
know close by. A good friend! You shall wait for me 
there.” 

“Surely,” said the woman of the shop. My lady could 
stay there and welcome; and from the inner room behind the 


1 16 The Ragged Messenger 

shop she brought a chair, and, wiping it with the dingy 
sleeve of her alpaca jacket, placed it near the window. 

It was a thoroughly respectable shop; and in spite of losses 
from customers who took credit ere they vanished, the good 
woman was thriving. The odds and ends of grocery and 
general provisions in which she traded were neatly packed 
on shelves on either side of the fireplace. Beneath them 
stood the bed on which the woman knelt to draw down any 
article not in frequent demand: such as the piece of bacon, 
the cheese, or the tin of gingerbread nuts. One end of the 
table by the window was occupied by the tea, the sugar, and 
such things as the neighborhood demanded in pennyworths, 
halfpennyworths, and even in farthingworths, every day and 
all day long; the other end of the table and the space under 
the table were stacked with cardboard saucers for pot-plants, 
and cardboard trays, in the making of which the shopkeeper 
filled in her leisure moments. These were carefully guarded 
from dirt and dust by sheets of old newspapers. The room 
behind the shop was let to lodgers, a widow and her daugh- 
ter, who worked at the soap factory in Sand Street. Nice 
tidy people who gave no trouble, said Mr. Morton’s old 
friend, who were kind to her own girl that shared the shop 
bed with her, and who were always bringing home presents 
for their landlady; as, for instance, the tradesman’s alma- 
nac and the colored picture of a famous general that held 
the place of honor on the wall. 

Sitting by the window and looking out into the street, 
Mrs. Morton listened while the woman talked. On the op- 
posite pavement there were children who sat on the doorsteps 
or played in the gutter. Every now and then the outpouring 
of a house, or the overflush of a drain, sent a richly laden 
river flowing by, and then the children were busy and happy. 
Shirtless, in tatters, half- naked to the biting wind, they lay 
on their faces and dabbled and sported in the liquid dirt. 
Mrs. Morton watched the black mud oozing through their 
tiny fingers; listened to their joyous cries. Presently other 


ii 7 


The Ragged Messenger 

children came whooping and gamboling as they guided with 
bits of stick, or their bare toes, the little boat and rudder 
provided by the lucky find of a dead mouse. When it stuck 
fast they went on their knees and lifted it by the tail ere 
they started it again. It was dead now, whatever it had 
been when they found it a minute ago. The mouse-boat 
passing took the children in its train. 

Here, in this “ bettermost ” shop of the immediate locality, 
Mrs. Morton sat waiting for her husband, twenty minutes, 
an hour, an hour and a half, an eternity. 

He came back at last, in the midst of the pattering feet 
and the shrill cries of the children. “ Messar, Messar! 
Chuck’s a copper. Chuck’s copper, Messar, Messar!” 
She heard the shrill chorus and rose from her chair. He 
was carrying one of the smallest of the black-faced band, 
who had been knocked down by the noisy little crowd and 
wounded in person and pride. Then, though he would not 
give coppers, he emptied the gingerbread tin and very care- 
fully distributed its contents; and then, after a very few 
words with the shopkeeper, he was free to go. 

“ Did you preach to them ? You were a long time.” 

“No. I told them some fables. I think I reach their 
hearts quicker with mj^ fables than with the words — of late. 
They clamored for a fable.” 

This was later, on the top of a tram, still going eastward, 
down the endless Commercial Road. It was necessary that 
he should see some people at a newly opened mission-room; 
make his arrangements for the future; give his decision in a 
matter of doubt. But the ride and the fresh air would be 
pleasant. He was flushed and happy, pleased with his after- 
noon; and he talked unceasingly. She shivered as she felt 
him slide his arm within hers— the arm that had held the 
dirty child. He told the plot of his fables, and of how he 
had been summoned to the lodging-house, and gratefully 
thanked for what he had recently done there. 

A fortnight ago, it appeared, he had been implored to go 


1 18 The Ragged Messenger 

and lay a ghost. There had been a fight between a sick man 
and a drunken man, and the sick man had been killed. He 
had fallen, breaking his head against the wall, or his ribs 
upon the floor. Whatever it was, in his weak state, the in- 
jury had been sufficient; and he had lain for a long time by 
his empty bed, groaning, most pitifully, ere he died. The 
other man, sobered by fear, had bolted, and been seen no 
more. The deputy and all in the house alleged that the 
groaning ghost persistently plagued them and was making 
the place almost uninhabitable. 

“ Poor souls,” said Morton, “ they were innocent enough. 
The guilty wretch was not of them. So I prayed, while 
they stood round me and trembled. Mary, they have slept 
in peace since then. To-day they told me I had worked a 
miracle — a miracle; and they thanked me with tears in their 
eyes.” Then he added thoughtfully: “But it wasn’t a 
miracle, Mary. There was nothing miraculous about it; 
only the efficacy of prayer. ’ ’ 

His business at the mission-room was soon concluded; and 
his afternoon’s work at an end, the interminable homeward 
journey began; and, on the omnibus to Whitechapel High 
Street, on the tram to the tram terminus in Theobald’s Road, 
and walking again in Bloomsbury, he talked to her with 
briefest pauses of his multitudinous plans. It was nearly 
dark now; the street lamps in narrowing avenues of smoky 
flame stretched in an endless perspective. Ahead, the sky 
had a murky redness — last light of the setting sun; and 
above and all about them, the darkness seemed to roll on the 
wind, as though something born of the black streets and the 
desolate swamps beyond, stealing onward to fall upon 
the brilliance and sparkle of the westward town. From her 
.seat on the omnibus, every now and then she could see an 
empty hansom, rare and belated visitor, hurrying back to its 
natural haunts of pleasure and pomp. One like a private car- 
riage, with a prancing horse, who gave his driver trouble in 
his burning haste to leave these sordid scenes and monstrous 


The Ragged Messenger 


ng 

sights behind him — shying at a tram, snorting and capering 
past the huge rolling house of those unknown people, and 
disappearing in a flash of plate glass, varnished panel, and 
lamp-lit leather. Such a cabman would have given them a 
free lift only to steady his horse and ease his aching arms. 

“There! Over there — ” Morton was standing up, one 
hand upon her shoulder, and the other pointing northward. 
“You see that smoke-cloud ? You see the top of the chim- 
ney ? It ’s the tallow factory — Clarendon Street. A mile the 
other side of it — in a straight line — there ’s the blackest of 
my spots. Six acres and a half. Mine! Ours / in a week 
from now, if all go well. Now look this way,” and he 
swung his arm backward a little, “over there, two more. 
One, hard by where you and I first met. Black as ink. 
Ours, both, in three weeks from now. We ’ll chase the 
shadows with our gold, we ’ll change the black to white. . . . 

“ I ’m glad you saw that house. I ’m so glad you saw it 
to-day. I will take you to the place again — and my queen 
shall w 7 alk in the sunlight I have made, and her heart shall 
glow and those tired eyes dance with joy — when she sees her 
people in the houses built with her gold.” 


X 

O NE afternoon young Mr. Bowman came to Sophia Street 
with a communication for Mr. Morton. It was, he 
said, an important communication from Mr. Carpenter, 
which he had been charged to deliver orally and at once. 

“You had better wait, then,” said Mrs. Morton. “ Please 
sit down.” 

He was fair-haired, blue-eyed, very young — twenty-two or 
twenty-three at most — and extremely shy. He sat as he had 
been commanded at a corner of the shining iron fireplace, 
and nursed and stroked his silk hat with a nervous hand, 
and answered all questions with shy and almost monosyllabic 
directness. 

‘ ‘ You have known my husband a long time ? ’ ’ 

“ No — er — not very long.” 

“ But you are in his employment ? ” 

“Yes.” 

He was well-dressed, Mrs. Morton noticed; and his 
clothes, which looked quite new, appeared to have been 
chosen with discretion. The black silk scarf and the long, 
close-waisted coat gave something of dignity to his boyish 
face and slim figure. Mrs. Morton smiled, as though wish- 
ing, were it possible, to put him at his ease. 

“ How do you help him ? What sort of work is yours ? ” 
“ Oh, purely clerical.” 

“ Writing, and that sort of thing? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ All day long ? Don’t you get very tired of it ? ” 


120 


12 I 


The Ragged Messenger 

“Oh, no.” Mr. Bowman looked up in surprise. “It is 
absurdly light work I only wish I had more to do — that it 
was in my power to give real assistance. Any one could do 
what I do.” 

“ Are you in that office in Essex Street ? ” 

“ No, I am at the office in Francis Street.” 

“What! another office? Is it the place where all the let- 
ters are sent to from here — where that old man — Mr Bigland 
— takes them to ? ” 

“Yes.” 

Are there many of you there ? ’ ’ 

“Only Mr. Bigland and myself.” 

“Doesn’t that other man — I never can remember his 
name — Mr. Griffiths — does n’t he work there ? ” 

“ Only occasionally. Only for an hour or two. His work 
takes him far and wide, you know.” 

“Where has he been lately ? How far and how wide ? ” 
“Well, to Liverpool chiefly, I believe.” 

“ And do you live at the office — you and the old man ? ” 
“Yes, at present, but I believe only till the twenty-fifth 
of March.” 

“ Ah! And where does the other — Mr. Griffiths — live? ” 
“ He has a house of his own — at Lambeth.” 

“And does he move on quarter day also ? ” 

“ Oh, no. I believe not.” 

“You would have heard it mentioned, I suppose.” 

Mrs. Morton asked a great number of questions, and 
gradually young Mr. Bowman ventured to talk a little him- 
self. Then all at once mastering his shyness he told her of his 
devoted attachment and undying gratitude to her husband. 
“ I would do anything in the world to serve him.” 

He spoke eagerly and nervously in short, spasmodic sen- 
tences, and suddenly relapsed into silence, as though ashamed 
of himself for having said so much. No one could doubt that 
he was speaking with deep feeling and with entire sincerity. 
Mrs. Morton smiled upon him encouragingly. 


122 


The Ragged Messenger 

In the monotony of her days, it seemed that the chance 
visit of the shy young man made a welcome break. Only 
to hear her own voice, to talk for a few minutes to any one 
who was not at once an importunate and irrepressible beggar, 
seemed to rouse and animate her. Life and light seemed to 
come back to her dark eyes from the dreamland of her long 
musings; there was color in her usually pallid face; and her 
voice took a firmer, gayer tone. Presently, as Mr. Morton 
still failed to appear, she decided to have tea without further 
waiting. The tea was brought in; a fresh pound cake was 
drawn out of its paper bag; the young man put down his hat 
and brought his chair to the table; and he and Mrs. Morton 
were deep in a discussion about the intricacies and difficulties 
of the German language when her husband returned. 

“I am glad that you have been making friends,” said 
Morton, smiling at them both as he threw off his Inverness 
cape. “ Well, Walter, what news? ” 

Mr. Bowman’s news was of a cheering character, and his 
employer rubbed his hands together joyously as he listened. 

Mr. Carpenter had desired it to be known that he had, 
during the last few days, sought in vain to see Mr. Morton 
for the purpose of informing him that there had been a slight 
hitch at the works in Lennox Street. The scaffolders build- 
ing the staging for the two big cranes had suspected and 
denounced a sub-contract in the operations of the scaffolders 
who were shoring and trussing the excavations, and who 
had erected the stage for the light crane that lifted the spoil; 
there had also been a complaint on the subject of overtime, 
and considerable trouble in organizing the night shifts. 
Now, this afternoon, Mr. Carpenter was happy to be able to 
state that the dispute had been settled. The contractors had 
removed the suspected middle-man, their own foremen were 
placed in control, and each and every scaffolder would draw 
his pay direct from the contractor’s coffers; all other arrange- 
ments had been made; and, henceforth, the work would go 
on by night and day without danger of a halt. 


I2 3 


The Ragged Messenger 

“Glorious,” said Morton, sipping his cold tea. “Glor- 
ious!” and he patted Mr. Bowman on the shoulder, prais- 
ing him as the good child who had brought the good 
news. 

“ This is my walking encyclopaedia, Mary, my living lexi- 
con. There ’s nothing learnt by books that is n’t known to 
Walter. Why, the other morning a professor wrote to me 
from Warsaw, and Walter answered him in his own tongue. 
But I must n’t make him blush. He is as modest as he is 
clever. ’ ’ 

And, indeed, Mr. Bowman was blushing from pleasure 
as he shyly protested against his employer’s affectionate 
praise. 

“ You know,” he said, rising to say good-by to his host- 
ess, “ that Mr. Morton always thinks people are all that, in 
his kindness, he would wish them to be.” 

Half the long evening was over when Morton, who had 
been writing continuously hour after hour, threw down his 
pen and began to pace the room in sudden restlessness. 

“ I sha’n’t sleep unless I see them, Mary. Humor my 
whim. Slip on your pretty cloak and come with me to L,en- 
nox Street to see them working by lamplight. Do.” 

Mrs. Morton rose slowly and seemed in doubt. 

“ Yes,” she said finally, “I ’ll go, but I won’t walk. I 
won’t go in an omnibus. You must take me in a cab and 
keep it waiting on the street to bring me back in.” 

Mr. Morton, surprised and doubtful, considered for a mo- 
ment with contracted forehead. Then his face lighted up, 
and he answered gaily: 

“ Yes, we ’ll be reckless for once. We ’ll have our treat 
and won’t count the cost. It is waste, extravagance, but no 
more than our night work. That is reckless extravagance 
also. The cloak, the cloak, fly! ” 

It presented a strange scene, this one spot of light and 
labor in the midst of the darkness of the tired town. Three 


124 


The Ragged Messenger 

or four arc-lamps hissing and flickering from immense iron 
standards threw a garish whiteness over all the ground and 
its surrounding streets, and made black walls of the night 
itself to shut them in. From behind the great hoarding 
there came a turmoil of varied toil — hammering of stone, 
the rattle and humming of steam-driven machinery, the 
clinking of chains, the groaning of cart wheels, and the 
creaking and low thunder of timber. From the gap or gate- 
way in the wooden hoarding, an endless train of staggering 
horses strained and suffered as they dragged away the rub- 
bish and earth-laden carts. Over all the place there seemed 
to hover, in the upper darkness, the spirit of blind hurry or 
unappeasable haste which ruled this almost impious disre- 
gard of night and day. 

As they stood inside the gate for a moment upon the 
threshold of the office, in which silent, weary men were 
counting the carts, making swift entries, watching, waiting, 
checking time-sheets, and counting again, another cab 
emerged from the outer darkness. The fare was Mr. Car- 
penter, in dress clothes, in crush hat, wrapped in an Astrak- 
han coat and a white muffler; drawn by invisible strings 
from club smoking-room or ladies’ drawing-room to assure 
himself with his own eyes that this phantom house-building 
was a splendid fact, and not a dream engendered of a snug 
fireside and a substantial dinner. 

Immediately he took command of patron and patron’s 
wife, and with enveloping, protecting courtesy began to do 
the honors. 

The whole ground had been cleared except in one corner, 
which the housebreakers had left to the last, and which they 
would sweep away by daytime in comparative leisure. 
Here, in the full light of an electric lamp, half a house, look- 
ing like a huge discarded toy torn to pieces by a giant’s 
hand, showed in a sectional view the sites of five or six 
humble homes. In one room, above the broken floor tim- 
bers, the wall-paper looked fresh and new; the fireplace had 


The Ragged Messenger 


125 


an iron pot or kettle on the hob; there were two china jars 
upon the mantelpiece, and a few colored prints, a little picture- 
gallery, nailed or pasted to the smart wall-paper. It was as 
though an earthquake had sent the inmates flying from the 
room, without time to pack and carry off their household 
goods. Below these torn houses, a sort of temporary mason’s 
yard had been established. Saws and chisels and hammers 
were at work beneath iron roofing; a steam-engine grunted 
and throbbed; and men clustered round fires in braziers and 
passed to and fro in the reddish glare of gas or oil flares, 
while the shaping of the great blocks for the foundations 
went steadily onward. Two colossal towers which — except 
that they were made of timber instead of steel — might have 
been the piers of a wide-spanned railway viaduct rose into 
the darkness and were the nearly completed supports for the 
powerful cranes. In the dark pits of the future cellarage 
and foundations, the timber-men were dragging about the 
great baulks like black ants on a lamp-lit ant-heap, while 
other, and white, ants were already invading their territory 
with the concrete, stone, and brickwork of the bearing-bed of 
the great structure. A hooded man, black and sombre as a 
monk, stood with a flag and signalled to an unseen man 
perched above his head, who was conducting the movements 
of the excavating crane that, whistling and snorting, sent 
down its iron box or bucket and brought it up again to be 
landed by unseen hands upon the running trollies with a be- 
wildering and unchecked rapidity. It was a place of strange 
light, strange sounds, and monstrous shadows; in which, 
while one cowered and dodged away from the shadow, one 
seemed in danger of being struck and crushed by unsus- 
pected masses of granite, or great beams of wood suddenly 
springing into movement at the summons of invisible 
ropes. 

“No,” said Carpenter, answering Morton’s questions, 
“ we stand now inside the cloisters — south side. There, by 
the corner of that shed, the cloister ends.” 


126 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ But the hall ? ” said Morton. “ Surely that is the hall — 
have I lost my way ? ” 

Carpenter pointed to the nearer of the timber towers. 

“ That is in the middle of the great hall. It goes through 
the roof. It is ten feet above the ridge now.” 

“ Yes, yes,” cried Morton, “ I see it all now.” And he, 
too, pointed here and there at empty space. ‘ ‘ There stands 
the refectory — the Infirmary straight in front of us ’ ’ 

As the two men talked it was obvious that to them, in 
imagination, the great house was built. As they picked 
their way through trucks and over wooden sleepers and trol- 
ley rails, or looked upward to the swinging lamps, they were 
walking on tessellated pavement, beneath stone doorways 
and under carved ceilings. In the racket and disorder, they 
were enjoying the silence given to the corridors and rooms by 
the thickness of stone walls and the stoutness of oaken doors. 

“There, the chapel,” Carpenter was leading them. He 
had given his arm to Mrs. Morton. “The altar window 
faces us, as we .stand here in the garden. By night, just 
here, you will see the stained glass lit up from within, a great 
colored picture glowing on the black wall as though thrown 
there by a magic lantern.” 

Presently, drawn away by the clerk of the works to go 
down into the ant-like pits, they left her. They placed her, 
with a caution not to move, by a brazier under a shelter of 
corrugated iron; and from this position she could see her 
husband and the architect scampering about like the blackest 
and most excited of all the ants. 

Carpenter returned alone with profuse apologies for leav- 
ing her so long; but they had become fascinated, and Mr. 
Morton could not yet break the spell and tear himself away. 

Mr. Carpenter had been dining out very little of late, he 
told Mrs. Morton, because he found his gigantic task so 
completely absorbing that he was exhausted by dinner-time 
— so used up that he recoiled in horror from the effort of 
providing small talk. 


The Ragged Messenger 


127 


“ I quite understand,” said Mrs. Morton, in the darkness 
below the iron roof. “ You must not feel called upon to 
make the effort now, on my account.” 

Indeed no,” said Mr. Carpenter, with grave urbanity. 
“ This is a very great privilege, a very great pleasure. A 
rare pleasure also — we have met on so few occasions.” 

Mrs. Morton made no response from the darkness. 

What I was going to say about dining out was this.” 
Mr. Carpenter went on with unruffled tone, solemnly cour- 
teous. I did break my rule a night or two ago, and I was 
going to tell you of the extraordinary interest that is evinced 
by everybody one meets in you and Mr. Morton. I was the 
lion of the hour simply because I knew you.” 

Then Mr. Carpenter lightly indicated the scene of his 
entertainment and the character of the company. A big 
political house, L,ady Withernsea’s — “ the usual sort of peo- 
ple”; but he made it clear that people usually to be found 
at Tady Withernsea’s were tjie highest in the land. And 
all of them had hung about Mr. Carpenter, and again and 
again expressed their longing to be as lucky as he: to be in 
close contact with Mr. and Mrs. Morton. 

“ Really, it is not surprising. Mr. Morton is a very won- 
derful man. Are j^ou never going to gratify his natural de- 
sire, Mrs. Morton ? ’ ’ 

It might be that Mr. Bertie had a somewhat snobbish trick 
of dwelling on the social weight of these friends of his; but 
in his manner there was a certain protecting kindness, a 
perhaps pompous thoughtfulness, as of a man of experience 
.speaking to a child, that was very different from the languid 
condescension of bygone days. 

“ If I may venture to say so, Mr. Morton has such tre- 
mendous force of character that he can have nothing to fear 
from the pleasures of society. He is not likely to be pushed 
from his path by the pressure of the frivolous throng — any 
more than I am myself. And for you, surely it cannot be 
right altogether to shun these streams of occasional gaiety ? ” 


128 


The Ragged Messenger 

In the world beyond the Oxford Circus she would meet 
kind friends waiting open-armed to welcome her, as well as 
the merely curious. Curious, he hastened to add, because 
of the growing records of her husband’s noble aims and 
colossal benevolence. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morton, showing her face in the light 
from the big lamps. ‘ ‘ I should love to come — if my husband 
would allow me. But I am afraid to ask him.” 

The pale face had flushed, and the dark eyes glowed. She 
spoke nervously, excitedly; like a child who has been told of 
impossible delights. 

“ Oh, he must,” said Mr. Carpenter, with the same pro- 
tective kindness. “ We must bring a little friendly pressure 
to bear; do a little scheming, if necessary. I am sure it 
would be good for both of you. I hope you know,” he con- 
cluded solemnly, “ that I have a very sincere admiration for 
your husband, Mrs. Morton.” 

Certainly Mr. Bertie was a changed man. His great 
House had steadied him. Upon him there was the dignity 
which comes to all men from the exercise of power. Flesh 
and blood, muscle and bone, steam, electricity, were obeying 
his command. The granite blocks won from the far-off hill- 
side were crawling to his hand, sidling and swinging and 
dropping to their allotted spaces. It was the House built in 
his brain — his own thought rising into solid stone and iron 
fact — changing him from the vessel of unfulfilled dreams, 
marking him forever with the impalpable impress of achieve- 
ment. Bertie’s House; though it might be that the engineers 
had worked out all the strains and stresses, the strength and 
trustworthiness of materials — a sealed book to Bertie with its 
complexity of problem and always varying application; 
though a cunning surveyor had calculated all the quantities, 
amount of labor, etc., etc.; though another architect had 
prepared the small-scale contract plans; though a highly 
qualified clerk of the works, Bertie’s chief of the staff, was 
conducting operations and watching the enemy in the per- 


129 


The Ragged Messenger 

sons of the contractors; — nevertheless, Bertie’s own House to 
dream about and wake about in nightmare agony, to dwell 
in — all the better part of him, wherever the rest of him might 
wander — now and forever more! 

Mr. Carpenter, opening his Astrakhan coat and looking at 
his watch as Morton returned, issued an urgent invitation to 
supper. 

“ Do come. We shall be just in time to see all the world 
and his wife. It is the greatest fun. Don’t say no, Morton. 
We ’ll go on talking about things all through supper. There 
are certificates I forgot to speak of. Do come.” 

Morton, happy and excited after all that he had heard and 
seen with the clerk of the works’ night deputy, seemed dis- 
posed to agree to the proposal. 

“ Why not ? Shall we go, dear ? We are out for a treat 
— reckless and extravagant. Shall we make a night of it ? ” 

“You come as my guests, you know,” said the greatly 
changed Bertie. “ I insist — I insist.” 

“Where is it?” asked Mrs. Morton. “Where is the 
place we are to go to ? ” 

Mr. Carpenter named the restaurant. It was the last- 
opened and most fashionable of all the fashionable restaur- 
ants. 

“ No,” said Mrs. Morton, looking down at the frieze skirts 
of her long cloak. “ It is very kind of you, but I would 
rather go home. I am tired.” 

Morton drew her arm within his, and patted her hand. 
He was really delighted that the refusal had been made. 

“ Our own fireside, Carpenter. That ’s what suits us 
best.” 

“ Can I give you a lift?” asked Mr. Carpenter, as they 
came out among the straining horses at the gateway. “I ’ve 
a cab waiting. Drop you where you like.” 

“ Many thanks,” said Mr. Morton, rather ruefully. 
“ We have a cab of our own— also waiting.” 

As they drove away through the sudden darkness, then 

9 


130 


The Ragged Messenger 

out again into a better-lit street, a highway by night as well 
as day, Morton eagerly called his wife’s attention to girls 
upon the pavement. They clustered at corners, two or 
three together, or sauntered alone: fair-haired, dark-haired 
girls, quite young girls in sailor hats and serge skirts, full- 
grown girls in smart Spanish hats, bolero jackets, feather 
boas, and silk petticoats; so well-dressed, some, that they 
might without a blush have boldly entered any restaurant in 
Tondon; too well-dressed for shop-girls, out too late for 
shopkeepers’ daughters. 

“ The people of our House! ” said Morton. “ See. More 
of them! Took. At that one. And those two together — 
not sixteen, either of them. Poor lambs. Poor lambs.” 

Thus, till the cab turned, all along the gay, well-lit street, 
he counted the people for his House. 

Mr. Herbert Carpenter, entering the newly decorated 
premises in Kssex Street, and telling the commissionaire, the 
boys in the outer room, and anybody else who could hear, 
that he was in a tremendous hurry, was informed that the 
partners were for the moment engaged, and that, if he could 
not wait, he must content himself with a managing clerk. 

“ Well, now, sir,” said the important and rather too famil- 
iar subordinate. 

“ Be good enough to make a note,” said Mr. Carpenter, 
‘ ‘ that I am to-day giving the contractors a certificate for 
twenty-five thousand, and that I shall give them another for 
the same amount almost immediately. You had better put 
that down in writing — the two checks to be drawn at once.” 

“ All right, all right,” said the clerk, genially. “ Don’t 
run on like that. What contractors, where? Building — I 
understand — but we are building in Bethnal Green, in 
Whitechapel, in Stepney. We are fairly snowed up with it. 
Now, what may be your particular department? ” 

“I have no department,” said Mr. Carpenter, loftily. 
“Iam Mr. Carpenter, the architect.” 


The Ragged Messenger 13 1 

“Oh, yes, I know who you are, but I want to get 
at ” 

“ I thought by your manner you did not know,” said Mr. 
Carpenter, firmly. ‘ ‘ Be good enough to remember it, and 
take the instructions I have given you to your employers as 
soon as may be possible.” 

“ Oh, very well. I can do that all right,” said the sud- 
denly crestfallen clerk; and Mr. Carpenter, wrapped about 
in settled dignity and lofty self-composure, left the building. 

Decidedly a changed man, of realized purpose and satisfied 
dream: a man suddenly strengthened by buttresses of fact 
who henceforth would endure no nonsense from anybody! 

Behind varnished doors and baize-covered doors, this very 
afternoon, during a lull in their labors, the partners had been 
talking together confidentially. Already a breach had been 
forced in the thoughtful mind of the junior partner by the 
assault of a very ugly idea. That next-door house was not, 
after all, to be a permanent addition. 

“ I ’ll tell you what this is going to mean to us — a succes- 
sion and a winding-up.” 

Mr. Norman, back from New York, smiled. 

“There ’s a lot of spending in ten millions!” and Mr. 
Norman jingled a bunch of keys in his trousers pocket. 

“Yes, and he ’ll spend it,” said the junior partner, ex- 
citedly. “ Lying awake last night, I calculated it. At his 
present rate, if he keeps it up, he ’ll spend it in two and a 
half years from now. I went over it again and again, and I 
could n’t make it different. I never dropped off till past 
three. It had set my brain on fire.” 

“ Well, well,” said Mr. Norman, making music with the 
keys, “ how is he spending it? Don’t you see that with 
each new trust created, with every endowment, with all his 
operations, he will build up business? From our point of 
view the money is not going: it is fructifying. It will be 
our own fault if we are n’t kept busy for my time and for 
your time.” 


132 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Do you really think so? ” 

“I really think,” said Mr. Norman, “you may sleep 
soundly — quite soundly — and cool that fiery brain with a 
little common sense.” 


XI 

T HE days were lengthening. February was delusively 
whispering of spring ; with trembling lights and faint 
violet shadows, wooing the land to believe again in one of 
her rapidly broken promises. In the garden between Stan- 
hope Gate and Apsley House there were yellow and mauve 
crocuses above the young grass, and a blackbird was whist- 
ling the notes of its Valentine-song. Foolish lilacs already 
showed green envelopes on their small flower-packets; and 
high above a clump of dingy euonymus and privet an 
exuberant chestnut had pushed its branches with sticky, 
amber-colored buds swollen to the limit of their bursting 
strain. Dr. Colbeck, with his hands behind his back, walk- 
ing to and fro, listened to the sound of the carriage wheels 
without hearing it, looked at a sedate governess and two un- 
ruly children on the other side of the railings without seeing 
them. 

Westward, against the watery yellow sky, the pile of 
buildings at Knightsbridge was becoming a gray, shapeless 
mass — like the rapid note in the sketch-book of an impres- 
sionist painter; — a diffused gray dust seemed to rise in the 
farther distance to meet the low clouds which hung in smoke- 
like wreaths; the carriages became fewer, the white disk of 
the clock at the gate flushed with orange light and became 
as a harvest moon riding low above the horizon; and still 
Dr. Colbeck walked backwards and forwards by the big rail- 
ings, musing, uncertain, wavering in purpose. 

Yes, said the servant, her ladyship was at home; her 
133 


i34 


The Ragged Messenger 

ladyship had come in an hour ago; her ladj^ship was in her 
ladyship’s own room. As a friend of the house, as one for 
whom there could be no limit to hours of admittance, he was 
ushered up the noble staircase, past those doors behind which 
the Prince Regent had once held high revel, above the great 
gilt lantern hanging on its crimson rope, to a higher floor; 
and in a minute he was seated face to face with the lady of 
the house. 

“ I was almost despairing of ever seeing you again,” said 
Dr. Colbeck. “ You are never at home when I come at an 
orthodox hour, you never go to parties — and you never write 
to me.” 

"I am very glad to see you,” said Dady Sarah, with a 
friendly smile. “ But I have been so dreadfully busy. I am 
so dreadfully busy. I have had time for nothing.” 

“ Not even for your old friends? ” 

“ Don’t be unkind,” said Lady Sarah. “ My old friends 
have their secured place in my thoughts, whether I see them 
or not.” 

She glanced towards the table by her side — a small table 
laden with ponderous volumes, together with piles of pamph- 
lets and an opened parcel of printed leaflets. 

“ I know I am disturbing you,” said Dr. Colbeck, “but 
let me stay a little while.” 

“You are not disturbing me. All I was doing will very 
well wait.” 

“ First, I want to ask you about yourself. It distressed 
me to hear of your illness — in the autumn, I mean. It was 
sudden; but I hope it was not serious.” 

“ It was nothing at all— I was n’t ill, but Dr. Garnet said 
I ought to have a change. After a week at Umberleigh I 
was all right again.” 

“Run down — nerves, perhaps, asking for rest?” Dr. 
Colbeck was smiling gravely. “A touch of sleeplessness, 
lassitude— bad dreams when the bad sleep came at dawn. 
Is that what our clever Dr. Garnet discovered? ” 


The Ragged Messenger 135 

“Yes,” said Lady Sarah. “ That sort of thing — nothing 
really. ’ ’ 

She was dressed in black, some soft and graceful material 
that was not of winter or summer, neither flimsy nor heavy. 
There was black lace or gauze about the neck, and, around 
it, a string of white pearls. The black dress made her hand 
look whiter than the pearls, as she lifted a bunch of violets 
from the table and inhaled the faint perfume of their wild 
spring woodland. Dr. Colbeck — with attention so concen- 
trated upon her that the pretty room, the red walls and the 
pictures, the china, the books, all the frame in which she sat 
had vanished — saw in the eyes a shade of wonder, brought 
there by his questions. 

“No, there is nothing serious in all that,” he went on. 
“ But they are just the indecisive symptoms that perplex us 
doctors. To me they would have suggested a shpck. The 
result of some sharp mental shock. But you had suffered 
no such shock, had you ? ” 

“ Yes,” she said thoughtfully, — “ I think, perhaps, I had. 
Yes, it was a shock. I don’t think Dr. Garnet knew, but I 
had received a great shock. ’ * 

For a moment his blood danced in his veins. She was 
speaking with absolute self-composure. Her low, musical 
voice had the introspective tone of one who is thinking, but 
not thinking of the words she employs; that infinitesimal 
harshness and the vibration he had once observed were gone. 
Concentrated in his purpose, he would not think of those long 
white fingers and the blue tracery of the slender wrist. He 
was using his words, as a man uses a dissecting knife, with 
fixed intent. Already he had built the guiding-lines on 
which the train of their questions and answers was to run, — 
was prepared, as an advocate prepares himself before going 
into court, for her unspoken replies: from each of which 
should spring with apparent spontaneousness some new 
question still leading to the appointed end. 

“ As you don’t tell me any more, I must n’t ask you any 


136 


The Ragged Messenger 

more.” His keen eyes watching hers sought, as a surgeon’s 
gently tapping fingers seek, for the flinching or tremor of a 
half-healed wound. 

“ There is nothing more to tell you.” 

“ By the way” — he spoke abruptly, as though starting a 
new topic — * ‘ have you heard anything of the great Mr. Mor- 
ton lately ? Have you ever seen him since that day ? ’ ’ 

“ Seen him ? Of course — frequently. I was with him this 
afternoon. He still lets me work for him, you know.” 

Then Lady Sarah, in the simplest, plainest words, told her 
old friend of how she had been oppressed by a sense of re- 
morse from the refusal to take in the poor, friendless wan- 
derer; of how she had gone to Morton to beg forgiveness. 
“ I failed him in his need,” she said. “And yet he bore no 
rancor.” He had welcomed her with delight; had laughed 
away the necessity for explanation; had given her a place — 
almost her old place — among his faithful followers; and had 
set her to work, without which her life would now be utterly 
empty. 

“ See. There are some words he has written for me,” and 
she pointed to the printed papers, “ to carry with me into 
the homes I visit. You don’t know — no one who has n’t 
seen could understand — the comfort those words will bring 
to aching hearts I know of. It is wonderful! Heart speak- 
ing to heart. I described the people and he sent me a proof 
to read — because I know them so well, — but I could not alter 
a word — a syllable.” 

Dr. Colbeck winced. She had once been his proof-reader. 

“ Then your opinion has not changed with regard to Mr. 
Morton ? You think of him in the same way now as in the 
past? ” 

“ The same way ? ” There was trouble in the eyes. He 
could read the faint, almost imperceptible, tremor of the hid- 
den wound. ‘ ‘ How should my opinion change ? ’ ’ she asked. 
Her eyes were watching his now in vague and embarrassed 
wonder. 


The Ragged Messenger 


i37 


“That would depend upon how you used to think of him,” 
said Dr. Colbeck, gently. “ What used you to think ? ” 

“ What I thought? ” Her eyes had turned, and she was 
looking at the books on the table. “ It would be almost im- 
possible to tell you — if I wanted to.” 

‘ ‘ Shall I try to tell you f ’ * 

“You could n’t. I scarcely know myself.” 

“You thought — what I believe he thinks himself — that he 
is different from other men.” 

“ No one can doubt that. Is he not proving it now ? ” 

“Yes, if all I hear be true, he is giving a remarkable 
proof of his sincerit)'.” 

“ He is showing the world what one man can do.” 

“ Exactly. What a man can do— how little, how much. 
But you thought him more than a man.” 

Lady Sarah stretched out her white hand as though to 
check him. 

“ Let me go on. I ’ll stop if you bid me. Without realiz- 
ing its meaning — or weighing the thought — carried away by 
his own words — resemblances, memories, vague analogies — 
you placed him on a pinnacle.” 

“ I don’t know what I thought.” 

“You told me so yourself. You admired him as much as 
any one you had ever read about. He was above nature — 
the reincarnation of ” 

“ Don’t go on.” 

“ Very well. But then came the shock. You were un- 
prepared for his descent to the common things of life — mar- 
riage with a waif for her pretty face.” 

“ I hope she is worthy of him.” 

“ Lady Sarah, will you tell me if I am right? That was 
the shock — the marriage — with her, with anybody? You 
had never thought of his loving anybody, and asking her to 
be his wife? ” 

“ No,” said Lady Sarah. “ I had never thought of that.” 

His heart leapt in joy. It was true. The sweet, unflinch- 


138 The Ragged Messenger 

ing eyes, the steady, sweetly proud gaze of the princess who 
could not lie, told him it was true. If he could have dropped 
to his knees by her side and clasped her in his arms, while 
he whispered his joy in the confirmation of his belief and 
hope that the prison walls had held secure the treasure of 
her love! 

“ But whatever I thought then — we ’ll never speak of it 
again, please — I know now,” she continued, “ that he is the 
noblest man that ever breathed. His message to the world 
is Heaven-born. If you saw him working day by day! 
Why don’t you see him ? I wish you would work for him 
— with him.” 

“ I would do anything you wished.” 

“ Would you ? ” And she put her hand into his. “Then 
do that. He asks after you — speaks of you often. May I 
tell him you will help ? ’ ’ 

“ Tell him anything you like. I think he is a noble fel- 
low. But, Lady Sarah, I don’t want to talk about Mr. 
Morton. I want to talk about myself.” 

“ That is a new characteristic ! ” said Lady Sarah, with a 
happy smile as she withdrew her hand. 

“Yes. I don’t often talk about myself, but that sort of 
reticence carries a retribution. If you don’t tell people 
about yourself, even your dearest friends don’t know you. 
People may respect you, but they don’t know you. You 
don’t know me, Lady Sarah.” 

“ Don’t I ? I think I know you very well.” 

“ What sort of man am I ? Behind this dull mask which 
you have seen so long, what am I? May I for once tell 
you? ” 

He had turned his chair and was speaking with resolute 
determination. As she looked at his serious face and recog- 
nized the change of voice and manner, she understood that 
what he had just said had real meaning in it, and, staying 
the commonplace words of smiling encouragement, spoke 
with earnest sympathy. 


The Ragged Messenger 


i39 


“ Please tell me.” 

“Am I a good man? . . . Yes, you say. But, Lady 

Sarah, I don’t believe the things you believe. I am not re- 
ligious as you are. I hide my thoughts, but they are here — 
carved in my brain — deep grooves or tracks for the settled 
stream of thought to flow in — unchangeable in course while 
life lasts; till life ends, forever; as, to me, it must do, here 
below — with no hereafter.” 

Her hand, pulling at the pearls about her neck, trembled 
violently. 

“You never knew that, so I was forced to tell you,” said 
Colbeck, sadly. “ But a man may be an infidel and yet 
so rule his life as not to break one churchman-law. 
. . . Don’t speak. I have not done so. Judged by the 

moral code, my life has been irregular — in one long episode 
of life — now closed. Lady Sarah, I had to touch on this 
theme — no more. You did not know it. So I had to tell you. 

‘ ‘ But all my life I have listened to my conscience — I do 
believe in conscience — have felt all the Christian’s love of 
his brothers. I am boasting now, you see. You, with j^our 
wide sympathy, can surely understand how a man who 
hopes for no harvest otherwhere than here may sow with 
diligence and care. I have been a diligent sower.” 

“ I know you have.” She spoke almost in a whisper. 

‘ ‘ Are you horrified ? Does it give you pain even to think 
of the real man behind the mask, shut out from all this para- 
dise of good men’s dreams, not feeling his loss, not greatly 
caring for the gain — feeling his heaven and his hell all here, 
not otherwhere? ” He took her hand imploringly, holding 
it tight in both his own. 

“ I should never have guessed that you thought — like 
this.” 

“No? I kept it to myself. But there is another thing 
you never guessed — that I love you.” 

Then in a torrent of passionate words he pleaded for his 
heart’s desire. 


140 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Do you understand ? You hold the keys of heaven and 
of hell for me. You are my now and my hereafter. Eter- 
nity of joy or pain hangs on your lips — for me. If I must 
live without you neither God nor devil could devise for me 
worse torment than to make me live forever. Without you 
— since I first could think of it — I have walked as a shadow 
in a world of shadows.” 

“ Oh, don’t — don’t speak so wildly.” 

She had risen; the force of his longing seemed like a 
fierce wind making her almost breathless; the white hands 
warded off his outstretched arms; and her eyes, as they read 
the passion in his changed face, were full of a surprise akin 
to fear. 

“I won’t — I won’t speak wildly — calmly — yes,” he 
gasped, struggling with and mastering his outburst. “ But 
I can’t choose words now — they come.” He dropped his 
arms and smiled. “ There — don’t fear me. I ’ll replace the 
mask. There, see. Now you know. I ’m glad I ’ve told 
you. Well?” 

“I wish you hadn’t told me. I am sorry you should 
think of me — like this.” She looked at him now with tears 
in the kind, sweet eyes. “ I am sorry ” 

“ Sorry that you can’t bid me hope ? Listen, dear; I don’t 
ask to hope at once. I have shocked you, pained you in 
laying bare my thoughts. But I had to tell you all — to be 
honest. Now you know me. That ’s something gained, at 
least.” 

As she moved about the room he followed her. Presently, 
as she stood before the fire and leaned her arm upon the 
mantel, he took her hand again and held it — as a man holds 
a bird that may go free if it will: without pressure, without 
retaining force. And as they stood thus he pleaded with 
no visible passion, in calm, grave tones; but with all the 
strength of his strong, clear brain given to its task. 

She was to think of it in all lights — now and again — with- 
out hurry. “Only admit the thought,” he pleaded. 


The Ragged Messenger 141 

“ Don’t drive it away for ever because it is new, or strange 
— or ugly.” He knew that he had nothing to give her, 
while he asked her to give him paradise. It was a mon- 
strously unfair exchange — he knew that well. But some 
day — who knows ? — who can foretell ? — she might be willing 
to make it. There was a poor slave, one of her old servants 
waiting outside in the darkness — who would be waiting 
there always, though the day never dawned for him. She 
might think of him thus. 

No, she said. She could not pretend. She must make 
him understand. She was honored, deeply honored. 

“ Who is talking wildly now ? Do you want to make me 
think that all I can win is your laughter — a light stroke of 
satire to punish the fool for his folly ? ” 

“ Oh, don’t! You know how much I mean it — how I have 
always honored you, as ’ ’ 

“ Yes, yes. As an elder, a wise old fogey —a dull, well- 
meaning friend to whom you were always kind. You never 
thought to see him push himself amongst the suitors for your 
hand.” 

“ Dr. Colbeck, I want to tell you— I must tell you. You 
are the first man who has ever asked me to be his wife.” 

“Then let me be the last,” and he smiled. “There is 
only one way to bring that about. Accept me without de- 
lay. You have but to drop your handkerchief— of course 
you know that — and young men, old men, all men would be 
at your feet.” 

He loved her, while he smiled, with a yearning love — love 
for her beauty and her proud candor. Who but his dream- 
princess would have taken pride in telling him that no prince 
had wooed her ? 

She smiled at his praise, but sadly; with no hope for him 
in her smile. She had made up her mind, long ago, she told 
him, that probably she would never marry; and in the last 
year she had decided against marriage. She would feel no 
void now; the work would fill it. 


142 


The Ragged Messenger 

Then he told her that he would not take her from her 
work; he would help her in it. He would devote his life to 
the work as freely as she had devoted hers. It should make 
no difference. It would be easier for her. Instead of a 
maid, she would have a man to fetch cabs, hold cloaks, and 
sit in waiting-rooms. He told her the extent of his income 
— to be spent to the last shilling as she directed. “A pit- 
tance when we think of Morton’s millions, but enough to do 
some good with wisely spent. I ’ll be your purse-bearer, 
your man-of- all- work. While you do your angel- task and 
save the souls, I ’ll try to heal the bodies. Think of that, 
to have an all-round man — only a trifle rusty — to do your 
doctoring! Don’t think my want of faith will ever cause 
you pain. Forget it. You know I don’t parade it. Take 
me to church. I ’ll not disgrace you. I ’ll kneel where you 
kneel, I ’ll pray where you pray. And if I don’t believe — it 
is because I caimot. While you worship God, I ’ll worship 
you. ’ ’ 

Thus he pleaded his cause — and pleaded in vain. 

“ It is n’t because you don’t believe — I hope you will, one 
day,” she said, with wet and faintly red-stained eyes, as she 
held his hand at parting. “ It is myself. I cannot.” 

“You ’ll leave me hope, — one ray to save me from the 
shadows ? ’ ’ 

“ No, you must n’t hope. If we can’t be friends — as we 
always have been— dear Dr. Colbeck, please forget me.” 

Safely guarded in the prison walls — secure against Morton; 
secure against him! Colbeck, walking in the darkness be- 
neath the plane-trees of Hyde Park, thought of it all. No 
need to have hurried home, no need to curse the slow, 
staunch ship as it fought the winds and the waves, and to 
him seemed but to creep upon the waters in its strong home- 
ward flight. He had lost nothing by delay. What should 
he do now ? Go away again ? What did it matter where 
he wandered, or where he halted to rest ? Without hope to 


The Ragged Messenger 143 

live for, what good thing can a dreamer do when he 
wakes ? 

In the silence and the darkness beneath the trees, as he 
walked on towards the light and the sounds by the Marble 
Arch, Dr. Colbeck felt for the lurking hand and clasped it; 
and hand in hand, step to step, he and the Spirit of Sudden 
Sadness walked on together. 


XII 

O NE night, about a week after his interview with Eady 
Sarah, Colbeck, sitting alone in the library of his flat, 
received an unexpected visit. 

It seemed a pleasant room, now that order reigned. In 
the low bookcases all gaps had closed; shoulder to shoulder 
the army of his silent friends stood in unbroken ranks. A 
well -clad army, too, they showed — the books of a book-lover 
who likes to dress each new recruit in sumptuous garments. 
Dozens of the volumes were presentation copies, gifts from 
writers to another writer; or essays, that reminded him of 
his own student days, laid at his feet by students like him- 
self struggling along the stretching path of science. On the 
walls, water-color drawings, signed by their painters, artists’ 
proofs, and sketches from the clever penmen, the black and 
white originals of many a printed page; on every side the 
pretty odds and ends that come to well-liked men as presents, 
to doctors most of all — from grateful patients; the Chelsea 
Shepherdess admired in compliment; the miniature, the 
snuff-box, or the seal he once had looked at; screens, book- 
rests, old carved chairs — the unsought spoil of popularity. 

He had dined alone in his rooms, meaning to write during 
the evening. Upon his desk, in the light of a shaded lamp, 
the materials for authorship were all arranged. He had 
scribbled a few lines; scratched out; made fresh starts, only 
to find his once so ready pen copying the old words as 
though too lazy to invent some new ones. He had sat, pen 
in hand, looking at the paper, striving to concentrate his 


144 


145 


The Ragged Messenger 

will, to force the pen to work; but the stubborn pen and the 
vagrant thoughts had conquered, driving him away to his 
deep arm-chair to muse in idleness. 

“ Mr. Morton, sir, would like to see you.” 

As the servant stood at the door, Morton’s strong voice 
came from the narrow hall. 

“ Colbeck, my dear fellow, may I come in ? ” 

His manner was that of an old friend hurrying to see 
another after an enforced absence. He grasped Colbeck’ s 
hand, and shook it with an affectionate vigor. 

“You said I might count myself among your friends — so 
I come to you in my trouble.” 

Colbeck bade him welcome; drew another chair to the fire; 
and took from him the big Inverness cloak. 

“ I am glad to see you. I wanted company. What is the 
trouble ? ” 

“ Take care,” said Morton, “ my cloak is muddy. Don’t 
soil your handsome chairs. Throw it on the floor — or here,” 
and he took it again; rolled it into a tight bundle and put it 
on the coal-box. “ I have been walking — walking about 
the streets for hours. I am in no plight for this smart room. 
Well-housed, Colbeck — like a duke!” And he glanced 
about the room admiringly. 

Colbeck observed him more closely. His boots were 
covered with mud; his legs to the knees were splashed with 
mud; his face was hot and flushed, the gray hair plastered 
to the forehead in perspiration. But in spite of the violent 
fatigue he had undergone, he was obviously still in a state 
of restless excitement. 

“ Sit down and tell me quietly what is the matter. My 
time is yours. We have all the night before us.” 

“A true friend, Colbeck! Not to be frightened by a 
ragged visitor.” 

Colbeck ’s grave, calm voice seemed to act like a spell for 
the moment, and the visitor sank into the offered chair with 
a sigh of weariness. 


146 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Do you smoke? No? Let me mix you a brandy and 
soda, . . . No? You must have some food — a few 

sandwiches at least, ’ ’ and Colbeck spoke into a tube by the 
fireplace. “ Very well. Now, quite quietly— so that I may 
understand it, bit by bit. What ’s the trouble ? ” 

“ This money!” and he sprang to his feet. “The burden 
of my wealth. I longed for it— I used to long for it — mil- 
lions. And now, since the money came, I sometimes think 
it will drive me mad.” 

“ You should n’t say that— even figuratively.” 

Morton looked down into the grave face with a shrewd, 
quick glance. 

“There spoke the doctor. That ’s the doctor’s phrase. 
The note of warning in the tone,” and he smiled. “ You all 
say that. No, no — I am sane enough. Men call me mad. 
They always have. Don’t fear, old fellow. That ’ s not 
going to happen.” 

He sat down again and continued in a lower voice: 

“ But, I have been shaken by a doubt. Doubt is a dread- 
ful thing. It is the Devil’s weapon that he ’s proudest of. 
He struck me with it to-day — a blow that told — at half-past 
four to-day. I have been walking ever since. I ’ve walked 
it off, very nearly ’ ’ 

“Well, well. Sit still and rest now. You have walked 
enough.” 

“ Yes, I ’ll rest a little if I may, then I ’ll go. My wife 
will wonder.” He looked into the fire in silence for a few 
moments. “ Colbeck. It ’s an oppressive weight to me: 
it ’s nothing when you try to use it. As it goes — I see it 
clearly. One corner of a weed-grown garden — one narrow 
patch in all the world- wide garden — cleaned and ready for 
the seedsman. That ’s all I dare to hope for.” 

“ Enough to bring you happiness — in work accomplished.” 

“ Yes. But I suffer in the task. My people won’t listen 
— they won’t listen to me now. All the world has changed. 
A yellow tide has flowed over the world I knew, and I am 


The Ragged Messenger 147 

standing in a quicksand of gold. If I step forward I am 
swallowed. There is only one foothold left to me — one little 
piece of rock for the soles of my feet. The love of my wife! 
Without her I should be lost.” 

“ Ah! You are happy in your married life ? ” 

“Ineffably — ” He was silent again while Colbeck sat 
silent also, watching him. Gradually his excitement had 
subsided; the feverish restlessness had gone; he sat motion- 
less, his hands on his mud-stained knees, and looked into 
the red caverns of the glowing coals. 

‘ ‘ Colbeck, you have done me good. ’ ’ He pushed back his 
hair from his forehead and turned with a composed and 
smiling face. “ You are not a mesmerist, old chap. You 
are something better. You are a good man. That ’s why 
I came to you.” 

“ Good, am I ? Who told you that ? ” 

* ‘ I have heard about you. They have told me things — at 
the London Hospital. That ’s where I got your address.” 

“ Oh, they ’ve not forgotten me at the old London. I ’m 
glad of that. There ! Spend your money there, Morton. 
They are horribly in debt each year. This year the deficit 
is heavier than ever. ’ * 

“ Was heavier, Colbeck. They were in debt.” 

“ You have done a good deed then,” said Colbeck, warmly. 
“ Never doubt as to that.” 

“ No, I ’ll not doubt. That ’s your advice. But you 
don’t believe, yourself, Colbeck. It ’s all a myth, eh? A 
pretty fable— if you like— for children and old ladies.” 

“ Where did you get that from ? ” 

“ From you. You are honest — you made me understand 
in the first minute of our meeting. Never mind, old fellow.” 
His voice had the friendliest tone, his whole expression an 
affectionate, tolerant mildness. “ You will believe. It ’s all 
true. No fable, /tell you, you ’ll believe it one day.” 

He got up, and while Colbeck leaned back in his chair 
and watched him he walked about the room, not restlessly, 


148 


The Ragged Messenger 

but with slow, measured paces; and, as he moved about, he 
picked up some of the pretty things, admired, and with slow 
care replaced them. 

“ lodged like a duke — like a much-loved duke! Now I ’ll 
tell you — quietly — sanely. Eh? You know all about the 
beautiful House I am building ? ’ ’ 

“ No. Some one told me you had a house in Blooms- 
bury.” 

“ I don’t mean my own house. The House of the Woman 
of Samaria. Don’t you remember? That ’s the thing 
nearest my heart — the thing I glory in. We are making it 
more splendid than that good fellow Carpenter could hope 
for. It shall stand like a palace in the midst of hovels — 
shaming the black town with its splendor. No waste in 
that, Colbeck. Not a penny squandered. Each costly 
stone, each inch of cunning artistry shall be one word of the 
Message that I bring. It shall still speak when I have 
gone.” 

Then he told Colbeck how, in his feverish anxiety to see 
his House completed, he had urged on the work by night as 
well as day. And last night, in the small hours while he 
slept, an accident had happened. Supporting timbers in the 
excavated ground had given way, and three men had been 
crushed. 

“ I only heard of it this afternoon, and I hurried to the 
Middlesex Hospital, where the poor fellows had been carried. 
Colbeck, they told me at the works that it was nothing — 
men maimed, not killed. They said these accidents occur 
more frequently at night than in the daytime.” 

“ I suppose it is difficult to obtain really adequate 
light.” 

“ They said even the best men work in a dull, dazed sort 
of way at night. Such work ’s not natural. Carpenter 
never told me that. As I stood by their beds I felt the guilt 
of it, as though I had wounded each with my own hands. 
And one— poor soul — he spoke my thought. As he lay 


1 49 


The Ragged Messenger 

there, bandaged and helpless, he cursed me. He cursed me 
and my money and my House.” 

“You should not have let that upset you. You were 
quite innocent.” 

“You say so too. Yes, in thought, I was innocent. I ’ll 
have no more night- work. I never knew the risk. But the 
Devil struck me with doubt, and I walked away in misery. 
It ’s gone now. Poor fellow, he ’ll withdraw those words 
to-morrow. He ’ll be glad to take my hand to-morrow and 
tell me not to fret.” 

Each of these men should be pensioned, he said. Tike 
soldiers wounded in the battle-field of labor, they had earned 
their pensions. 

“ I have heard of these pensions of yours, Morton — and I 
own I can’t altogether approve. I don’t say in this case. 
But don’t you think it rather tends towards pauperization ? ” 

“ Not if I act with care; and I do, Colbeck. I am very 
cautious. I don’t give one a day. But here ’s an instance. 
An old woman I have known for years. Seventy, I dare- 
say, and wheeling her barrow of shell-fish every day, and 
sometimes all day. She was paralyzed six years ago, and 
they said she would never move again; but she returned to 
her work, and was working up to last November. One 
night I wheeled the barrow for her. Colbeck, I am a strong 
man. I was very tired. Could I be wrong in giving her a 
pension ? ’ ’ 

“No, that was all right.” 

“ Then my new settlements! They can’t be wrong either. 
And my new scheme. You ’ll approve of that. I wish 
you ’d do more than approve — I wish you ’d take a part in 
it.” 

“ What is this new idea ? ” 

‘ ‘ It came to me by chance words. The good thought of a 
good fellow in a train. The little cripple in the house — in 
half the houses of the poor, one suffering child — incurable! 
They lie in their corners in the foul, close rooms with up- 


150 The Ragged Messenger 

turned faces— not neglected, you know — but suffering. Now 
and then they are taken to hospitals, homes for incurable 
children — there ’s a good, well- man aged home in Shore- 
ditch! Well, I mean to take those children and give them a 
home of their own. I ’ll lift them out of the smoke and 
dirt, and put them among flowers and trees.” 

“Yes. Do that.’” 

‘ ‘ Is Talgarth one of your lordly friends, old fellow ? Have 
you ever been to Talgarth Park — in Hertfordshire. No? 
I thought you knew all these great people. Well, he has 
let me ground — a hundred acres — and I am building a tem- 
porary home. But it is difficult. There are so many things 
I don’t know. I am deafened by advice, stupefied by varied 
counsel. If I had one man to guide me — one man who 
knew ! ’ ’ 

As he spoke of his schemes his eyes glowed, and he swung 
his hands in lively gesture; but the restlessness had alto- 
gether disappeared. He spoke enthusiastically, eagerly, but 
without excitement. 

“Well,” he said, looking down into Colbeck’s attentive 
face, “by Talgarth’s Park, as wisely and as cheaply as I 
can, I am building my home for these incurables.” 

“Don’t call them incurables. It’s a bad word. We 
doctors don’t admit it.” 

“No?” said Morton, eagerly. “ I like that. I like that.” 

“ At any rate, a child should never hear the word.” 

And shall not — in our home. Colbeck, dear fellow, you 
understand, this is only a beginning, a trial, a shift to give 
us time. If all go well, I ’ll buy more land — more land than 
all this Talgarth owns— and build a noble college — with 
farms and schools and busy workshops — my children’s home, 
for life. Well?” 

“ It is a fine idea.” 

“ Good work to do for any man, eh? Can you see the 
upturned faces— watching the flies on the broken ceilings, 
not the birds in a broad blue sky ? Hark! . . . What 


The Ragged Messenger 15 1 

was that, Colbeck ? The cry of a child in pain ? Dear old 
fellow, I see you heard it.” 

“Yes,” said Colbeck, “ I should like to help you in this, 
if you ’ll let me.” 

“ Tet you?” cried Morton, exultantly. “Name your 
price, fix your own salary. Money ’s no object. We ’ll 
buy your skill at your own price. . . . Ha, ha! I ’ll 
tell you the payment I offer: the smiles on the lips of our 
happy children ! ’ ’ 

The servant, bringing in a tray with sandwiches, found 
the visitor hastily putting on his mud-stained cloak. 

“ No, no, dear fellow, I can’t eat. I should choke — in 
the pleasure you have given me by your promise.” 

Colbeck came out to the stone landing and watched him as 
he hurried down the stone stairs. As he reached the bot- 
tom steps he turned and looked upwards. His strong face 
was in the full light of the lamp which hung in the vesti- 
bule. He could not see his host in the darkness above, but 
knew that he was still there. 

“ Sleep soundly, old fellow,” he called to Colbeck. “ You * 
have given me sleep. You have driven all my cares away. 

I shall sleep like a tired child.” 


XIII 


M R. and Mrs. Morton were established in their new 
home. 

It was a fine old house with twice the depth of the house 
on either side, and at a moderate expense, according to the 
firm of decorators called in to distemper walls and whitewash 
ceilings, it might have been made beautiful. The artistic 
foreman of the firm, rapidly considering possibilities, advised 
rural treatment: open hearths, red tiles, oak-lined parlor, 
hall sitting-room; countrified prettiness, not the pomp of 
cities. But the firm’s client proved — aesthetically considered 
— a dead wall. One might as well have racked one’s brains 
to please a lamp-post. In his hands, and under his direc- 
tions, the house speedily developed the air and character of 
a public institution, or the central office of some widespread 
and fairly successful charitable organization. 

On the ground floor a long passage led to a big room at 
the back of the house. This room, with its glass roof, built 
at some period by a billiard-playing tenant, was too cold to 
be a pleasant lounge; but, warmed with the china stove that 
Morton had introduced, it was useful for large gatherings 
assembled for prayer or discussion. In the passage there 
was a cloak-room with hat-racks and coat-pegs and some 
yellow kitchen chairs, and here Morton and his friends could 
conveniently leave hanging those outer garments which, 
coming directly from the haunts of famine and fever, it might 
not be advisable to take into general society. 

On the first floor was Mrs. Morton’s drawing-room; be- 
hind that the library — without any books — known as Mr. 


52 


i53 


The Ragged Messenger 

Morton’s room. On the floor above, two bedrooms only, for 
the millionaire and his wife, were as yet furnished. Above 
that, on the upper floor, lived Mr. Bigland, Mr. Bowman, 
and the domestic staff, permanently; and, temporarily, all 
such chance guests as for the moment might be accepting 
Mr. and Mrs. Morton’s hospitality: two nurses passing 
through town on their way to the temporary cottages in 
Hertfordshire, some waifs and strays in charge of a dour 
female guardian waiting for admission to an over-gorged 
Home, the girl who was knocked down by the omnibus in 
the square a week ago to-day. 

In another big room on the ground floor — the original 
dining-room of the mansion — this strange company drew to- 
gether about mid-day for their early dinner, their strength 
sometimes increased by a new and invariably shabby ac- 
quaintance who had been picked up by Morton in the public 
street, and who had escorted him to his own door. On such 
occasions the odor of the great smoking joint, which always 
filled the hall and floated and hung high above the drawing- 
room floor, perhaps reached the humble escort and caused 
him to linger until, with a smile and a “ Good fellow,” Mor- 
ton bade him to the feast. Mrs. Morton and her husband did 
not attend at the daily joint-party, but were served apart at 
a small round table in still another room. They were alone 
here, unless, as sometimes happened, Mr. Bigland or Mr. 
Bowman received an invitation to take his place at this 
private table. 

The body of servants which Mrs. Morton now found her- 
self called upon to rule as mistress was by no means large. 
At their head was Mr. Parrott, an ardent admirer of Mr. 
Morton’s preaching, who had been a fireman at the docks, a 
caretaker of a workman’s club, a doorkeeper at a hospital, 
and who now called himself a butler. The health of the 
elderly cook had broken down in the kitchen of an eating- 
house at Poplar, and as an old and valued friend of her em- 
ployer she had been given her present easy and luxurious 


154 


The Ragged Messenger 

position. Then there was a sort of handy or odd man, who, 
always busy in the basement, only rose to the surface carry- 
ing the odorous meat at dinner-time, or, when a meeting was 
being held, to stand at the door of the back room with a 
pile of hymn-books for distribution among the congregation. 
The staff was made up by two or three maids, each young 
and each an orphan, who, as they told their mistress when- 
ever opportunity offered, had known what it was to be home- 
less. “And might be ’omeless now,” one said, “but for 
Gawd and the master.” With a weekly allowance or allot- 
ment of funds which rendered anything but extreme frugality 
out of the question, housekeeping in Mrs. Morton’s fine house 
in Bedford Square was not an oppressively difficult task. 

Mr. Bowman and Mr. Bigland one afternoon were working 
at a deal table beneath the glass roof. Old Mr. Bigland — 
better dressed than of old in frock coat and blue bird’s-eye 
tie, looking as he might have looked in the past had his late 
newspaper business greatly prospered — was putting litho- 
graphed forms into envelopes which Mr. Bowman was ad- 
dressing. It was a peculiarity of the house that everybody 
spoke of “the work.” It was the work of the master, 
secular and sacred, various and intricate, but always going 
forward. All helped in the work; all participated; but no 
one had his work: it was always the work. Another pecu- 
liarity of the house was that, coals being expensive, there 
was great economy in using them, and rooms were often 
fireless. This caused the work to wander in the cold April 
weather from room to room following the glowing grate; so 
that it was not an unusual thing for Mrs. Morton, reading 
her novel in the drawing-room, to be surprised by the ap- 
pearance of the workers intending to establish a working 
camp by her fireside. With an apology, they would with- 
draw. The master had supposed that she was out, and had 
sent them upstairs. To-day, the big china stove was lighted, 
so here the work went on. 


!55 


The Ragged Messenger 

‘The Reverend John Morton,’ ” said Mr. Bigland, 
reading one of the forms, “ ‘ regrets that he cannot accede 
to your request.’ Reads well! /had that printed. How 
many since dinner ? ’ ’ 

“ About a thousand,” said Mr. Bowman, without looking 
up from the piles of opened letters. 

“ They ain’t worth answering.” 

“ Mr. Morton wishes every letter to be acknowledged.” 

“ It hinders the work.” 

“ Mr. Griffiths says it is useless.” And Mr. Bowman 
handed another basketful of envelopes across the table. 

“ Mr. Griffiths! What ’s he know about it? Why should 
he speak ? Walter, I ain’t sure the master was right to en- 
gage a retired detective like him.” 

“ He wanted some one to prevent imposture.” 

“ I could have done that. Mr. Griffiths worries him — 
checks him too much. He hinders the work. In the old 
days we got on very well — he and I — no one to hinder us.” 

There was a sound of footsteps in the long passage. One 
could not doubt whose. The ponderous footfall, acquired 
years ago in thick-soled, regulation boots on a police-con- 
stable’s beat, had been little changed by soft calf, glace kid, 
or unfettered area of promenade. 

“ Well,” said Mr. Griffiths, “ hard at it, I see. Where ’s 
Mr. Morton?” 

“ He ’ll be in soon,” said Mr. Bigland, with a slightly 
important air. ‘ ‘ He told me he was only going to the 
workmen’s dwellings.” 

“ Ah! He is a good friend to the builders.” 

“ He is a good friend to everybody,” said Bowman. 

‘ * Yes.” And Mr. Griffiths put a neatly folded packet of 
papers on the table. “ My notes regarding those cases. 
Only two are genuine. I have put them on top.” 

‘‘Only two f” said Mr. Bigland. ‘‘You can’t mean all 
the others wrong.” 

“ Old hands. Professional beggars.” 


156 The Ragged Messenger 

“ He ’ll be very disappointed,” said Mr. Bigland. 

“Where ’s Mrs. Morton?” 

Mr. Griffiths asked the question abruptly of Bowman. 

“ She is at home.” 

“ How are you getting on with the German lessons? ” 

“Very well.” 

“You are content with her ? ” 

“ Content ? ” 

“You find her an apt pupil ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Ah, I don’t know German.” 

“No more do I,” said Bigland. 

“I ’ve often,” said Griffiths, reflectively, “ felt the want 
of it.” 

“ I never have,” said Mr. Bigland, vaingloriously. 

The master, soon returning as Bigland had predicted, 
found these his three disciples or faithful followers thus talk- 
ing together over their labor. 

“Good news, my friends,” he cried gaily. “We are 
moving at last.” 

“ They are making progress at Stepney ? ” Griffiths asked. 

“Bravely. A little army at work.” 

‘ ‘ All the old rookeries gone ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The whole nest of dirt and disease swept away as though 
a cleansing hurricane had passed. Streets and streets of my 
new dwellings plate high.” 

“ If only you could get new tenants.” 

How can I, Griffiths ? Eve^ one who lived in that 
black horror shall return to cleanness and light. They 
won’t believe it, poor souls, but they shall.” 

“ Meantime — you may not know it — but they are making 
a pandemonium of your temporary sheds.” 

“ I know,” said Morton, sadly. “ The women came out 
and reviled me as I went by. The men lying about on the 
ground never stayed the shrill tongues.” Then cheerfully: 
“ What does it matter? I tell you we are moving apace.” 


i57 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ When it ’s done, I doubt if they ’ll even thank you.” 

“ How many of the lepers came back ? I want no thanks. 
It will be so much done. One plague spot wiped away from 
the face of the earth. So many human beings given the 
chance of a life above that of unclean beasts.” 

“Well, as you say, sir, it ’s a chance.” 

“ On my way home I looked in at Lennox Street. Car- 
penter and his contractors are doing wonders,” — rubbing his 
hands together, exultingly, — “ they are doing wonders by 
God’s good light. Cranes as high as steeples. Lever and 
jack, chisel and wrench, wherever I turned among the granite 
blocks. My beautiful House is rising — rising.” 

“ I am glad you are pleased,” said Mr. Bigland. 

“ My good old friend, I have been unbearable — in a fever 
to be doing. But you have all borne with me. I ’ll be 
easier now. ’ ’ 

“You see,” said Mr. Griffiths, “ you have so many irons 
in the fire.” 

4 4 And they seemed stone cold. At last the fire is roaring. ’ ’ 

44 Hqw ’s the Children’s Hospital ? ” 

“ Nearly finished, man. A wire to say they ’ll be ready 
for matron and staff in a month from now.” 

“What a change in Talgarth Park,” said Mr. Bigland. 
44 What a grand change ! ” 

“It is not unsightly,” said Morton, somewhat apologeti- 
cally. “ Lord Talgarth will own that it is not really ugly.” 

“ He has written to you,” said Bowman, pausing in his 
task. 

“ I shall be easier now,” Morton repeated, going to the 
stove and warming his hands. “ Something done. Some- 
thing that will last whatever happens to me. I can steady 
down into my old work again.” 

“ That ’s good to hear,” said Bigland. The old man had 
followed him to the stove, and he spoke now in low, eager 
tones. “The old work. When you did it all yourself— 
with only me to help you.” 


i5 8 The Ragged Messenger 

“ Yes,” said Morton; and he, too, dropped his voice almost 
to a whisper. “But the power is slipping from me — has 
slipped since the money came. The power to listen and to 
judge, to speak and to convince. Only the longing to give 
— to use my gold — to lighten my burden.” 

‘ * The fables ! ’ ’ The old man whispered with intense 
eagerness. “That ’s not gone? You still speak to them 
in fables ? ’ ’ 

“They don’t listen. They are deaf to my words. The 
chink of gold seems to drown my voice. It is my money, 
not my teaching, that they crave.” 

“ They don’t know which is the real gold,” the old man 
whispered. 

Morton smiled at his enthusiastic follower as though grate- 
ful for his enthusiasm, and then returned to the table. 

“ Anything here for me, Griffiths ? More revelations, eh! 
You don’t seem to think it, Griffiths, but in the old days I 
was a terror to impostors.” 

“Really?” 

“You don’t believe it, but the rogues all dreaded the mad 
parson, as they called me.” 

“ It ’s quite true,” said Mr. Bigland. “ He used to look 
at them and they shrivelled up and slunk off,” and he blew 
out his cheeks. “One look and he blew them away, scattered 
them like chaff” — with a sour look at Mr. Griffiths — “ but 
then he had only me to help him.” 

“ Well, well,” said Morton, deprecatingly, “ we must n’t 
boast and he took the letter that Bowman was waiting to 
show to him. “ What says my Lord of Talgarth ? ” 

“ He offers his house furnished,” said Bowman, “at a 
nominal rent, since you won’t buy it.” 

Morton read the letter aloud. 

The plain fact is, my wife and daughters have taken a 
dislike to the place. They dread meeting your incurables 
in the park and having their horses frightened by some of 
your hopeless cases on the way to the railway station.’ 


159 


The Ragged Messenger 

Rubbish! 'Note. — We consider no case hopeless , and Dr. 
Colbeck’s theory denies the existence of incurables.’ Good, 
very good. But, did I write that?” 

“ No,” said Bowman, modestly, “ I did.” 

“ You did ? ” and Morton glanced at the added note again. 
“ Then why do you write my hand ? ” 

“Do I, sir?” and Bowman flushed from pleasure at the 
compliment. “It’s quite unconsciously, if I do. But I 
suppose it is from copying so much of your writing, and 
from admiration and reverence.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Morton, smiling at him affectionately. 

“It’s a sign of weakness,” said Bowman. “So they 
used to tell us at the Board School. If a master was popular 
all the weaker pupils wrote exactly like him.” 

‘ ‘ Then I hope the masters wrote a better hand than I do. 
Where ’s my pension list ? ” And he picked up the neatly 
folded papers. 

“ What a pile! This is the true luxury of wealth. From 
my hand to theirs. No leakage. No office expenses 
charged, eh, Griffiths?” And he began to read the ex- 
detective’s reports. 

‘ ‘ ‘ No. i . Widow — children — • five! ’ — um, um — ‘ Has 
worked incessantly at waistcoat-making for sweating firm — 
seventeen years. Undoubtedly a deserving case’ — Ah, ha 
— A pension for her. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, ” said Griffiths, ‘ ‘ an honest woman. Told no lies. ’ ’ 

“ Good. ‘ No. 2. One of the saddest cases that has ever 
come under my knowledge. Undoubtedly deserving.’ A 
pension for her. Then the world is not as bad as you would 
paint it, Griffiths.” 

“Oh, I am an optimist.” 

“ An optimist,” said Morton, “ and he would persuade us 
that the land is peopled with monsters,” and he laid his 
hand on Bowman’s shoulder. “ But we know — Walter — we, 
who have seen the dark side of things also, are quicker to 
catch the points of light.” 


i6o 


The Ragged Messenger 

Old Mr. Bigland answered for his young friend. “We 
always tried to find the bright side of things.” 

“Well,” said Griffiths, “there are two deserving cases. 
Don’t go deeper, sir. There are only two ” 

“ Out of all this pile ? ” 

“ All worthless! It is not my fault, sir — I tried not to be 
hard — no good. . . . How do you do, madam.” 

Mrs. Morton had opened the door, and now stood in doubt 
upon the threshold. 

“ Are you very busy ? ” 

Morton hastened to her and took her hand. 

“I have only now come in. Forgive me for not going 
straight upstairs. I heard the dear fellows’ voices and they 
drew me.” 

‘ ‘ I want my tutor. Can you spare him, only a moment ? ” 

“ Of course.” 

Mrs. Morton carried her books to the deal table and sat for 
a minute by Mr. Bowman’s side. 

‘ * Mr. Bowman, I am in difficulties again. Took here — 
you said something about ” 

While the tutor and his pupil attacked the difficulty, Mor- 
ton remained by the open door talking to Mr. Griffiths. 

‘ ‘ Any fresh news from America ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ No. Not yet. It ’s a longer job than I anticipated.” 

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” said Morton, holding 
the door for his wife as she passed out, the difficulty 
solved. 

He lingered talking to his followers for more than a 
minute; and as, at last, he turned to follow her, he was met 
at the door by one of the little maids. 

Mr. Park, sir. Mr. Parrott is out, so I answered the 
door — and he said he would n’t go away until he seen you. 
He says he must see you, sir.” 

“ If he must see me, I suppose he must. Show Mr. Park 
up to the library.” 

“ Yes, sir.” And the little maid retired. 


The Ragged Messenger 161 

“ Stop,” said Mr. Griffiths. “ One moment. This is my 
department. You must not see him.” 

“Why not?” 

“ He is a dangerous man.” 

“ I am not afraid.” 

“No,” said Mr. Griffiths, “ but / am. Took here,” and 
he ran through his papers rapidly. ‘ ‘ He is the fellow who 
made out such a heart-rending tale that you wanted to pen- 
sion him off-hand without inquiries. ’ ’ 

“ Is he, too, unworthy ? ” 

“An unmitigated ruffian. Here we are!” And Mr. 
Griffiths read from his notes. ‘ ‘ Known to police for ten 
years. Begging-letter writer and blackmailer. Acts as 
bully for the women he lives with — takes most of their 
money — and ill-treats them. Was in trouble for trying to 
extort money by threats from the Dean of Northminster, 
who went in fear of him. A violent character.” 

“Is this all true?” 

“No question of it,” and Griffiths offered his notes. 
‘ ‘ This information was given me by the Inspector at White- 
chapel.” 

“Then I’ll see him myself.” And Morton took the 
notes. 

“Then I ’ll be with you — in case ” 

“ In case he turns nasty? Tut, tut, man, I am not the 
Dean of Northminster,” and he opened the door. “Stay 
here and don’t disturb us — ” He spoke authoritatively — 
“ I ’ll be rid of Mr. Park in five minutes.” 

Bowman had risen and was watching his employer with 
an expression of anxiety. 

“ Is it wise, sir, to ? ” 

“ It is always wise, my lad, to do your own dirty work,” 
and Morton closed the door behind him. 

Upstairs, in the bare room, Mr. Park was standing by the 
French windows, looking down at the narrow flagged yard 
and the slate roof and glass skylights. He turned and 


162 


The Ragged Messenger 

showed himself to be a visitor of most unprepossessing as- 
pect. He was a tall man of about forty, of very powerful 
frame, and great muscular development, now rather run to 
seed. His heavy face was pallid and puffy; his close- 
cropped hair looked rusty like the coat of an ungroomed 
dog. He wore a black scarf, beneath which showed a dingy 
calico shirt; he had a piece of black crape round the sleeve 
of his rough jacket; and he twirled a greasy, flat-brimmed 
bowler in his big, coarse hands. 

His host closed the library door and seated himself at the 
office table— the principal piece of furniture in the room, 
brought here from the Tottenham Court Road, where for 
many a day it had braved the inclemencies of the weather as 
it stood upon the pavement before the crowded shop of a 
second-hand dealer. 

The visitor without an invitation took a seat in front of the 
window. 

“Well, Mr. Park, what do you want?” 

“I wanted to see you, sir.” 

“ Well ? You have your wish.” 

“Yes, sir; I knew it was n’t you that was holding me off. 
Your gentle heart would be open to my afflictions.” 

“Unmerited afflictions — ” Morton held a single letter in 
his hand — “ I observe that you say.” 

“ No man has toiled as I have, sir. Born and bred to bet- 
ter things, I have worked with these hands, sir.” 

“Yes, yes. And your wife and children ? ” 

“ Taken from me, sir — and now after twenty years of toil 
for others — I am adrift.” 

“ How have you worked for others? ” 

‘ ‘ In charity, benevolence, sir, same as you yourself have 
given your substance to the poor. What I have given in 
charity if I was to count ” 

“Don’t.” 

“ No, sir. Give cheerfully and count not. Then when 
the hand of God was heavy ” 


The Ragged Messenger 163 

“ Don’t use that name.” 

“No, sir — ” Mr. Park was ruffled by interruption. A 
faint, dark flush came to the puffy cheeks. “No. Quite 
so. But, sir, in my sore affliction I turned to you — as I 
always knew of— you with your gentle heart and millions 
and millions ” 

“ Did n’t you get my answer ? ” 

Mr. Morton, sitting at the table, ran his hand through his 
hair thoughtfully, then put his hand behind his back, as 
though seeking for handkerchief or purse. 

“ Not your answer, sir, but a hard word from one of your 
well-paid secretaries. I don’t take that for your answer. 
That ’s why I come.” 

“ To hear it from my own lips: No.” 

“ You won’t help me?” 

“No.” 

“Take care, sir, don’t say what you’d regret.” Mr. 
Park’s tone was still pleading and suppliant, but it had 
risen in pitch, and there was a very ugly light in his eyes as 
they roved round the empty room. “ Don’t drive me away 
desprit. What is it to you — with your thousands to waste 
and squander how you please? You can’t refuse me.” 

“I have nothing to waste on impudent scoundrels like 
you.” 

“Scoundrel! What the devil do you mean by ” 

“ It is the truth. You fill me with disgust.” 

“By God, you’ve made a mistake.” Mr. Park had 
sprung to his feet and drawn a little nearer to the table. 
“I’m not the sort of poor devil to be blackguarded by every 
damned parson.” 

“Steady now. Ties have n’t helped you and bluster 
won’t.” 

“ Won’t it ? You think with your cursed money and cant 
you are almighty, but I ’ll be paid for your hard words, Mr. 
Parson,” and again he looked round the room. “ You must 
be blasted confident to sit here alone preaching damnation to 


1 64 The Ragged Messenger 

all comers, but by God, you ’ll have to pay me — ” and he 
drew nearer. 

“Come here!” said Morton, almost in a whisper. 
“ Steady, eh ? ” And he laughed softly. 

“ Steady, yourself. Is the damn thing loaded ? ’’ 

Mr. Park, approaching furiously, had stopped and in- 
voluntarily recoiled. He was pointing now with an oscillat- 
ing hand, covered by the short barrel of the nickel-plated 
revolver that his host had drawn forth from behind his back. 
No toy, — as Mr. Park observed, — but a stubby, heavy, bru- 
tally business-like weapon. 

“ Listen — I have all your miserable career written out 
here.” 

The glittering nickel barrel might have been a basilisk, 
so fascinating did it seem to be to Mr. Park. As he stood 
at bay, very erect, and struggling to maintain the gentle- 
man-like composure proper to one who had known better 
days, his cheeks fell, and a very sickly smile took the place 
of the flush of anger. 

“ O’ny my fun. If it is loaded — put it away. Not safe 
to play with. ’ ’ 

“ All written here,” Morton continued “ And they tell 
me you are a dangerous man. Come here, and I ’ll tell you 
a secret. I am dangerous myself.” And he rose, and, com- 
ing from behind the table, advanced a step or two, and his 
smiling visitor retreated. “Iam used to dangerous men. 
I have lived among them. Before now I have gone alone 
where men lived in dens and were wild beasts — tigers — and 
taken a woman away from them — taken her by the hand 
and led her out from among them.” 

While he spoke he was waving the revolver in a manner 
that seemed reckless and inexpert: bringing it down on 
Mr. Park, and passing it across him. And each time that 
Mr. Park was covered he tried to stand firm, and each time 
failed more distressingly to do so. 

“ But this was for them — not for such as you ” Mr. 


The Ragged Messenger 165 

Morton rang- the bell, and. returning to the table. laid down 
the revolver. 

“■ For the tzgec^ — not for the foul bird of prey.’ 1. As he 
advanced towards the viator he seemed careful to keep be- 
tween him and {foe table. 44 Not for the bully who is brave 
with the weak and defenceless — the coward who lives by 
threats he dare not carry out — except with women.” 

Mr. Parrott, returned mm his outing, came to answer the 
bed. 

4 4 Show this follow the door, and if he ever comes here 
again send for a polxcenan and give him in charge. . . . 

Go.” 

Mr. Park at the door of the room rallied almost completely. 

“ I *m going: I don't want to stop to be preached at by a 
lunatic with firearms.” And then to the servant, very 
loudly: ' ‘ I ted you he ain't safe. He ought to be shnt up. 
There 'd be murder come of it, if he is left out.”’ 

Mr. Bowman's anxious face appeared in the doorway im- 
mediately after Mr. Park's departure. 

“■ He *s gone? May I come in? Are you alone, sir? ” 

4 4 Yes. Come in. My visitor has left me.” 

' ■ I heard his voice, sir. very loud and violent, but I was 
afoaid to disobey you and come up. A pistol ? Whose ? ' ’ 

^ Mine, Walter — did n't you know I carried one ? M And 
Morton picked up the revolver and stowed it away in the 
wallet or pocket that lay hidden beneath the skirts of his 
black coat. “An old habit. A foolish habit now that I am 
rich, with the detective force wanting to watch over me. 
But I need no bodyguard, my dear boy, I need no body- 


XIV 


FTER a cold and windy Easter, as people began to return 



r\ to Eondon, Mrs. Morton in her new house became 
aware of tentative advances from what is termed society. 
From the light-hearted world on the other side of Regent 
Street there came fluttering to her lonely feet, as she sat by 
the fire and read her novels, timid little birds of promise: 
programmes of amateur theatricals; prospectuses of charit- 
able cafts chantants ; cards for private views of the winter 
work of some Honorable Daubers; a circular from a new 
ladies’ club; two or three invitations to lunch with Lady 
Barker. These, had she been able to entertain them kindly, 
would naturally have proved the harbingers of more hand- 
some offers. 

Lady Tollhurst, after a winter spent at Cannes, hastened 
to Bedford Square, and seemed as though she would never 
exhaust herself in expressing the surprise she felt at any 
reasonable person living there. 

“ Oh, he ought to have taken Wiltshire House. It was 
such a chance, don’t you know.” 

Beneath the yellow mimosa in Cannes gardens, or on the 
deck of a yacht as it steamed round the promontory of Mon- 
aco, Eady Tollhurst said she had discussed the matter with 
a very illustrious personage, explaining to him how the 
money and the empty house had synchronized in occurrence 
as though it had all been arranged by Providence; and he had 
agreed that it did, indeed, seem a wonderful opportunity. 

“ But, my dear, since you are here, let ’s make the best of 


166 


167 


The Ragged Messenger 

Lady Tollhurst, fussy and foolish, was good-natured and 
devoid of unworthy motives. As she said herself, she had 
no axe to grind. She regarded the great Mr. Morton as a 
source of innocent entertainment. Since all chance of ob- 
taining any proprietorial interest in him had slipped from 
her family forever, she wished to enjoy him at her ease; pre- 
cisely as she enjoyed the antics of a droll fellow on the stage, 
or the humor of a low comedian at a smart supper-party. 
He was killing, she frankly owned. But for Mrs. Morton 
she was genuinely sorry. Bertie Carpenter, or somebody 
else, had told her that Mrs. Morton’s life was dull; and 
the statement had filled her with pity and kind inten- 
tions. To Lady Tollhurst such a trouble seemed the worst 
tragedy that life could hold; to run short of perpetual 
amusement, the most dreadful form of indigence that could 
be imagined. 

‘ ‘ And how is that wonderful husband of yours ? ’ ’ said 
Lady Tollhurst. “ He chose your pictures, I suppose? ” 

Upon the drawing-room walls — distempered in a light 
terra-cotta tint — there were engravings in maple- wood 
frames: The Writing on the Wall ; The Flight into Egypt ; 
The Money Changers in the Temple. Above the marble 
slab that formed the mantelshelf there was a large black- 
framed print — a good reproduction of Righetti’s popu- 
lar and famous picture of Christ hanging on the Cross. 
Lady Tollhurst examined the room without attempting to 
disguise her surprise and interest, as though visiting a 
museum. The bareness, the wide, empty spaces especially 
struck her. A sofa on one side of the hearth, an arm-chair 
on the other; a chair with a pile of Mudie’s books on it; 
a little table in a corner with the only attempt at ornament 
which the room contained — cheap trifles from Japan or 
China; wedding presents — a silver photograph frame filled 
with portraits of popular and good-looking actors, the gift of 
Mr. Bowman; a large and handsomely bound Bible, the gift 
of Mr. Bigland; wrought-iron brackets for the electric light 


1 68 The Ragged Messenger 

— and really, except the shabby carpet, nothing else! Could 
anything be more original ? 

“ They ’re talking about him more than ever,” said Lady 
Tollhurst, completing her examination. “The questions 
people ask — you ’ve no idea. They seem to think, because 
I am an old friend, that I have him in my pocket.” 

‘ ‘ How can they think that ? ’ ’ said Mrs. Morton listlessly. 

“ I don’t know. I tell ’em he ’s a regular firework — don’t 
you know. Not the sort of thing to carry in your pocket. 
They ’re frantic that he won’t allow himself to be looked at 
like any other lion. And they ’re dying to know you.” 

“ Really ? I have n’t noticed it.” 

* ‘ How can you, if you shut yourself up here and see 
nobody ? ’ ’ 

“ I should be only too glad to see people.” 

“But you can’t see people from Bedford Square. They ’re 
too far off. They ’re out of sight.” 

‘ ‘ I did not select this house. ’ ’ 

“No, my dear,” said Lady Tollhurst, sympathetically, 
“I’m sure you didn’t,” and she looked at her hostess 
kindly, — “ and I don’t believe it agrees with you. You don’t 
look well. You look positively ill.” 

“Oh, I am not ill,” said Mrs. Morton, wearily. “I am 
only bored.” 

“Oh, my poor, dear girl! ” and Lady Tollhurst felt as sin- 
cere a pity as though Mrs. Morton had said she was suffering 
from acute typhoid or double pneumonia. “Oh, we must 
put a stop to this. We ’ll get a doctor to order you to be 
moved — if necessary.” 

“I have a doctor,” said Mrs. Morton. “He orders me 
medicine— but he says I am all right. So I am, I suppose. 
Dr. Colbeck, you know.” 

“ Does he come here ? I am glad he comes.” 

“Now and then. He is helping my husband in the 
work.” 

Deeply impressed by the sad disclosures of this interview, 


i6g 


The Ragged Messenger 

Lady Tollhurst went away full of kind intentions. Hence- 
forth Mrs. Morton was always “ my dear” in personal ad- 
dress, and ‘ ‘ that poor dear ’ ’ when spoken of to other people. 
In spite of the distance, Lady Tollhurst returned to Blooms- 
bury on several occasions; took Mrs. Morton for drives, 
giving her all the fresh air to be obtained in the little box 
of a brougham as it rocked round the Park on its easy cee- 
springs; and personally conducted her protigie to two large 
luncheon-parties at Lady Barker’s. 

Indeed, not content with such active interposition in the 
distressing circumstances of Mrs. Morton’s fate, she gradu- 
ally prepared a strong society column for an attack in force, 
whenever the moment should seem favorable for such a 
manoeuvre. Thus, one corps of the great West-End army 
under General Lady Tollhurst, Brigadier Lady Salcombe, 
Brigadier Lady Westborough, and a glittering staff of such 
social leaders, was rapidly mobilized and ready to march, as 
soon as the London season should have fairly begun. Mean- 
time General Bertie Carpenter, also overflowing with real 
kindly feeling, and mindful of his promise of aid, operating 
on his own account, developed a turning movement; and, 
hoping to take, by a coup de main , what he honestly believed 
to be Mr. Morton’s quite untenable position, delivered battle 
— and suffered a disastrous defeat. 

Reminding his patron and his patron’s wife of how very 
nearly they had once supped with him, he urged them to 
gratify his then frustrated hope by coming to dinner, any 
night, at the same amusing restaurant. At last Mr. Morton 
accepted this invitation, named his night, and then imme- 
diately the thing began to grow. Impelled by a sense of 
protecting, almost pitying, kindness, Bertie determined to 
do all honor to Mrs. Morton; and, if honor should come to 
himself by the entertainment, it could not be helped. Truly 
it was not personal glory that he sought. But when a man 
who has not habitually played the part of host gets to work 
upon the rare task of arranging his dinner-party, he is, 


170 The Ragged Messenger 

perhaps, apt to overdo the work — in splendor of table decora- 
tion, plethora of dainty food, and multitude of guests. In all 
these points, a most well-meaning Bertie undoubtedly com- 
mitted excesses. Beginning with a plentiful supply of his 
biggest people, it came about that in the obsession of his 
plot he could not look upon a star or blue ribbon, a tiara or 
a long train, without experiencing a morbid craving to in- 
clude them in the furniture of the approaching ceremony. 
Day by day he became more completely the fevered slave of 
the pompous manager of his fashionable restaurant; each 
morning on his way to his work he arrived to demand added 
chairs to the expanding table, to accept avidly the sugges- 
tion of still more exotic delicacies; and, as the hour drew 
nearer, had his tyrant proposed a vintage from grapes picked 
on the slopes of Olympus, a ligume grown in the Elysian 
Fields, Bertie would not have faltered, or cavilled at the 
cost. 

In the big hall his great people were assembled, seated 
upon cane chairs or glancing at their watches in the shade 
of palm-trees. Other people not of the party, taking coffee 
in the upper lounge after earlier dinners, evinced absorbed 
interest, unremitting attention. The secret had leaked out. 
It is almost impossible to insinuate a table with fifty covers 
into the centre of a popular dining saloon where tables for 
more than eight guests are very rarely seen, and embel- 
lish it with fruit-bearing peach-trees in gilt pots, garlands of 
white satin and hothouse roses, etc., etc., without causing 
the curious and idle to wish to know who is expected. 
Everybody in the hotel— from the men giving tickets for 
cloaks and hats to the Siamese Minister and his attache 
dining in the farthest corner of the big room — knew that 
Mr. Morton was expected, and that Mr. Morton was late. 
Bertie, very pale, but very gracious, without the least lan- 
guor, a changed man, stood tall and straight, and chatted 
easily with the most exalted of his guests. Only, as he 
glanced through the glass doors at rare and belated arrivals 


The Ragged Messenger 171 

they all appeared to him black, and his heart jumped and 
turned sick again as each, opening his coat, showed a flash 
of white shirt instead of a black waistcoat. 

Mr. Morton did not come. 

Instinctively, Bertie guessed what had happened, as he 
marshalled his guests and started the dinner procession. 
Some unhappily inopportune call had come from out of the 
grimy Hast — a sick man craving ghostly consolation, any- 
thing tragically incongruous — and Morton had gone east 
instead of west. Mrs. Morton, dressed and anxious, was 
waiting; or had been begged to go alone, and, without cour- 
age to face the fine company, perhaps now lay sobbing on a 
sofa in hysterical disappointment. 

“ After all, what does it matter ? ” said a fat, false dame. 
“ It is you we came to dine with.” 

But a gray old lord, linking his arm in that of another as 
lie mounted the few steps in front of the dining-room doors, 
spoke in ire. 

“ I call it damn nonsense — being made a fool of. I’d go 
away if I was n’t so infernally hungry.” 

Bertie, very pale and haggard in the face of disaster, sat 
between a duchess and a marchioness. Naturally, he knew 
his social text-books too well to suppose that the statutes of 
the table of the Law could be set at naught even by incal- 
culable millions. Mrs. Morton’s empty chair was hidden by 
a peach-tree far down the long board. 

He smiled and chatted, as he ate each portion of the dust 
and ashes that his waiters brought to him; and he drank 
deeply. But half-way through the disastrous banquet he 
wandered away during four silent moments and stood in one 
of the rooms of that vast House of his, and emerged there- 
from so recovered in mental tone that he could laugh at his 
discomfiture. He was able to read Morton’s telegram— 
when it came at last to confirm the accuracy of his surmise 
—in a loud, good-tempered voice to the listening guests at 
his end of the table, and then to pass it on, without wishing 


172 The Ragged Messenger 

it had been differently worded, to those who had not heard 
him. 

“I must say, most original,” said the Duchess. “ Next 
time you try to get him, do ask me again.” 

Bertie did not think he would try again. 

But of all advances against the Morton stronghold, perhaps 
the most astounding was a sort of raid, or totally unsup- 
ported dash, made without note of warning by Lady Emily 
Tyrrell. 

Lady Emily, writing from her beautiful place at Wheat- 
ley in Oxfordshire, to Mrs. Morton, abruptly begged for the 
favor of a week’s visit. 

“ I have heard so very much of you from Papa and Sarah 
that I venture to feel quite an old friend, though we have 
never met. My husband and I would be so sincerely pleased 
if you and Mr. Morton w 7 ould come and see us and stay for 
a week. I do so wish you to see our garden. The roses are 
generally in their glory about the third week in June, so I 
suggest that for your visit. If Sarah cares to come, pray tell 
her to do so. I have not heard from her for quite an age. 
I will watch the roses and report progress. They are the 
bait I offer. I cannot suppose you would come to see us 
only!!!” 

Beneath her flowing signature Lady Emily resumed her 
letter, rather than added a postscript. 

“Is your kind husband also a great landowner? Our 
holding here is quite small, but we love it. And my second 
boy announces that he will be a land-agent and nothing else. 
Fancy, he is only five and already decided on his profession. 
The modern child looks ahead, does he not ? ” 

Lady Emily, like the modem child, obviously looked very 
far ahead. 

A faint color came to Lady Sarah’s face when Mrs. Morton 
mentioned the letter from Wheatley. 


i73 


The Ragged Messenger 

“The gardens are really worth seeing," said Lady Sarah, 
as though forcing herself to make some comment upon her 
sister’s invitation. 

She had called one afternoon; had asked to see Mr. Mor- 
ton; and, on hearing that he was out, would have gone 
away, but Mrs. Morton, coming through the hall from the 
large room where her tutor was working, had seen her and 
begged her to remain. 

“Come in here,” said Mrs. Morton, leading her perhaps 
unwilling guest into the drawing-room. “ We ’ll have some 
tea — directly.” 

“You are very kind,” said Lady Sarah, “and perhaps I 
may do my father’s errand by telling you now. My father 
told me to say he is anxious to call.” 

Mrs. Morton with a gesture invited Lady Sarah to sit 
down. 

“ I am honored.” 

“ He wants to speak to Mr. Morton.” 

“ I feel the honor for him, then. You look dreadfully 
pale. Are you ill ? ” 

“Only rather tired,” said Lady Sarah. “I have been 
among your husband’s people.” 

“ They are tiring.” 

Lady Sarah looked at her hostess in surprise. Then, after 
a pause, she said slowly, and kindly: “ I was very sorry to 
hear that you had been feeling ill.” 

“Oh, I am all right.” 

“ Dr. Colbeck seems to think ” 

“ Dr. Colbeck can’t do me any good.” 

“ He is very clever.” 

“ Lady Sarah — I wish you would be my friend.” 

“Iam your friend,” said Lady Sarah, nervously. “Iam 
sure I am very often here.” 

“Yes, you have been very good, you have countenanced 
me.” 

“ Don’t use such a word.” 


174 The Ragged Messenger 

“But if you would do more. If you would really help 
me.” 

“ If it were in my power.” 

“ I think it is. You have great influence with my hus- 
band. Use your influence for me.” 

Lady Sarah was visibly embarrassed by this enigmatical 
request. 

“ I don’t understand.” 

“Oh, I am not complaining of him. He is very good. 
But he won’t see, he can't see, that the life he makes me 
lead is poison.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Morton!” 

“You are horror-struck. To him and to you, it is all de- 
lightful — the good works and the good words. But I am 
not as good as you. I hate the sound of it all. I hate the 
sight of his people. They are all the same, with their drawn 
faces, and their restless eyes, and their tales of sordid misery 
— misery and starvation. I want to forget it all.” 

“ But you have everything now. Wealth ” 

“Wealth! I am the wife of a millionaire and am poorer 
than if I had married a country vicar with five hundred a 
year. You must see the preposterous position I am placed 
in by his fantastic notions.” 

“Don’t, don’t ” 

“With all his money I should still have a hard fight to 
win acceptance from the world. People would shake their 
heads and say nothing was known about me.” 

“ As his wife you are secure against ” 

“ Ah! You won't help me.” 

“How can I?” 

“ Tell him that he is wrong to keep me suffocating in this 
sort of mission-room existence.” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Morton ! ” 

“That it is cruel of him to grudge me money” — her 
breath came fast and her words fell with almost hysterical 
gasps. “ He flings it out of the windows — gives it to every 


i75 


The Ragged Messenger 

dead-beat — welcomes every wildcat scheme — and to me he 
doles it out like a miser. If he is wise — he will give me 
money — to waste too — if I like. I tell you I can’t stand the 
life here. If he is wise, he will see that I must occupy my- 
self — somehow. Ask Tady Tollliurst if it is just.” 

“ My aunt is all of the world.” 

“And so am I ” 

“ But I don’t think as she does.” 

Mr. Parrott appeared carrying the tea-tray, and, with him, 
Mr. Bigland. 

“The master! ” said the old man, beaming upon the two 
ladies. “The master has come in. He ’scorning up the 
stairs now. I hear him. Ran up to tell you he was back,” 
and, with a gleeful chuckle, the old fellow disappeared again 
to greet his master on the stairs. 


XV 


“ /GRIFFITHS, when are you going to find the woman 

vJ who nursed my cousin ? ’ ’ 

Morton was sitting at the library table. A good fire 
blazed in the grate; the weather was still unseasonably cold. 
As Mrs. Morton was going for a drive with Lady Tollhurst, 
the fire in the big drawing-room had been permitted by Mr. 
Parrott to die out. He could re-light it in a minute when 
the mistress returned. Dressed for her excursion, but not in 
that handsome cloak with the red collar, the mistress like 
the work had followed the burning coals, and now stood by 
the window buttoning her black gloves, and watching the 
pattering rain strike and splash upon the glass roof or the 
stone flags of the narrow yard. Mr. Griffiths with his back 
to the fire was warming his coat tails, and looking, as he 
answered with sententious gravity, very like a Police Inspec- 
tor who for the moment had mislaid his uniform and been 
compelled to preside over his office in his plain clothes. 

“ Ah! ” said Mr. Griffiths. “ You think me slow? ” 

“Horribly.” 

“Iam very slow, but very sure.” 

“Yes, but I don’t understand ” 

“No more do I. In my business we never attempt to 
understand — we simply find out.” 

“I know. You always say that, but it leads us no- 
whither.” 

“ Well, I have found out a good deal. Only this morning 
I heard from America. I can tell you what she is ” 

“ And where she is ? ” 


176 


The Ragged Messenger 


1 77 


11 Not yet. A little patience and I shall be able to tell you 
that, too.” 

Mrs. Morton, buttoning the last button of her glove, 
picked up her book from a chair and turned. 

‘ ‘ Of whom are you talking ? ’ ’ 

“ I was telling Mr. Morton what I have learned about the 
woman who was with his cousin when he died.” 

Oh, is that all ? I thought it was something interesting. ’ ’ 

“ My dearest,” said Morton, gravely, “ is not this of vital 
interest ? I can never rest till I have found her and paid her 
something of the debt which is owing.” 

‘ ‘ What can you owe her ? ’ ’ 

“Justice. She sold herself and was cheated of the price 
of her sin. ’ ’ 

Oh, leave her to her punishment. The poor wretch 
may be dead by now.” 

“ Then I must know that as a certainty. If she is living, 
I must find her — watch over her, and help her to live cleanly 
and well.” 

“ Give her money ? ” 

“Yes, give her money. More than the price she bargained 
for. Enough to show her its worthlessness when weighed 
against what she sold.” 

“ If she were living she would have been quick enough to 
apply to you. It ’s absurd to suppose ” 

Mr. Griffiths ventured to interrupt. He had been watching 
her closely, with a stolid and yet most respectful attention. 

“ I quite understand Mrs. Morton’s feeling. The same 
ideas presented themselves to me. A worthless creature 
whose sole ambition would be gain! She knew of your 
existence — so much we had from the Liverpool lawyer. 
Her first move, if in dire need, would be to appeal to your 
benevolence. Yet, in spite of all our advertisements, she 
makes no sign. Such a woman can have no conceivable 
motive for hiding, so it must follow that she is dead.” 

“ Yes. Then you think she is dead, too ? ” 


178 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ No, madam.” 

“No?” 

“ No. You see, you and I, Mrs. Morton, in our complete 
ignorance, both start on a wrong trail as it were.” 

* ‘ How do you mean ? ’ ’ 

“ We take it for granted — from the circumstances — that this 
woman was of the lowest class, a woman who would have no 
sense of shame, no feeling of disgrace. But we are both 
wrong ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Indeed ? ’ ’ 

“Completely. My colleagues in America have now 
worked out her life for me to the hour of her leaving for 
England — and she has not returned.” 

“Well,” said Morton, “ how does that help us ? ” 

“She is a woman of good education. A sad story — I 
sympathize with her. Governess in a rich family, and badly 
treated. Then cast off, and possibly penniless in a very 
hard country — I mean the States. This lady was English, 
but all this happened out there. The easy victim of cruel 
circumstances, and then drifting — one must pity her — drift- 
ing on, until we find her the chance companion of a dying 
profligate.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Morton, “ we know all that. Then, 
if you think she is purposely keeping out of the way, what 
good can it do ? ” 

“ I simply obey your husband’s orders. He orders me to 
find her: I have to do it.” 

‘ * How can you ? ’ ’ 

Mr. Griffiths laughed. His quiet laugh seemed the ex- 
pression of a perhaps too pompous self-satisfaction. 

“ Oh, there is no difficulty. We poor detectives get more 
and less than justice. We are always fools or magicians. 
Of course, we are neither. Ours is a thankless, but an easy 
trade. This case seems hard to you. It is child’s play to 
me — only it demands a little time, a little patience, a little 
more narrowing down.” 


179 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ What do you mean by narrowing down ? ” 

“Will you lend me your book? Thank you. I won’t 
injure it.” And Mr. Griffiths with slow care put Mrs. 
Morton’s book upon the floor in front of Mr. Morton’s table. 

“ An illustration, madam! Say you have lost your book. 
Well, take that as an example: I am told to find it. The 
middle of the floor is not the most likely place to leave a 
volume of love-songs — but I am to guess that it is there. 
Impossible. I don’t attempt it. I go slowly round and 
round the room in narrowing circles, till I have narrowed 
my circle to this little spot’’ — he stooped, picked up the 
book, and blew a speck or two of invisible dust from the 
under surface — “ and I have found your book, as slowly, but 
as certainly as I shall put my hand on this missing woman 
when the time comes.’’ 

“ Thanks,” said Mrs. Morton, taking back her book; “ I 
think I understand what you mean.” 

Lady Tollhurst this afternoon was not punctual in keeping 
her appointment. Mrs. Morton returned to the chair by the 
window, and read her book, or watched the lessening rain- 
drops, while her husband and Mr. Griffiths went through an 
interminable mass of letters and accompanying memoranda. 

As she read, she could hear the low-voiced recitative, un- 
ceasing, unvaried, each voice in turn murmuring the words 
as though together they were rehearsing a church service — 
a terrible litany of crime and pain unknown to the Book of 
Common Prayer. “ Five times last year in Stepney Work- 
house — Known to Police as out and outer — ” Griffiths was 
murmuring his notes — “Hawks pot plants, but takes men 
to ‘ the doubles ’ — Given by the ladies at the Bridge of Hope 
another start — she sold her stock — drunk on the steps of 
Bridge of Hope that night and stock all gone — Returned 
next day and smashed the light above the door.” . . . 

“For Him who died for us I beg and pray and for His 
sake” — Morton was responding with a letter — “I do im- 


i8o The Ragged Messenger 

plore. No bread I have nor bed nor fire as Reverend 
Saunders of the Mission knows. It is God’s truth I say 
and beg and pray and do implore. . . . ” 

Mrs. Morton closed her book and pushed back the chair 
noisily, as Mr. Bowman entered with a basket full of papers. 

“ Come into the drawing-room,” she said abruptly, “ and 
let me go on with Heine until Lady Tollhurst arrives. May 
he? ” and she turned to her husband — “ Can you spare him 
so long ? ’ ’ 

Mr. Morton waved his hand affirmatively and nodded his 
head again and again; but, working against time, neither he 
nor Mr. Griffiths looked up or checked the litany as Mrs. 
Morton and her tutor went away to the cold drawing-room. 

Five minutes later Lady Tollhurst’ s green-panelled 
brougham drew up before the door, but without Lady Toll- 
hurst inside it. Her ladyship, the footman told Mr. Parrott, 
desired her compliments to Mrs. Morton; and would Mrs. 
Morton be so good as to drive back in the carriage to the 
dressmaker’s in Albemarle Street, where her ladyship had 
been unavoidably detained. Her ladyship begged Mrs. 
Morton not to hurry, because her ladyship’s detention in the 
shop threatened to be protracted. Mrs. Morton, deriving 
the substance of these polite and thoughtful instructions 
from Mr. Parrott, did not hurry. She lingered over Heine 
in the cold room for another five minutes, and, coming back 
with Mr. Bowman to the library, kept her friend’s horses 
waiting for still another five minutes. 

“ I wanted to tell you something, when you are disengaged 
for a moment.” 

Mr. Morton laid down his letter and looked up with a 
smile. 

“ Dearest, I am all attention.” 

“Iam expecting some people to tea on Wednesday — the 
day after to-morrow.” 

“ Lady Sarah ? ” 

“Oh, yes — Lady Sarah ” — Mrs. Morton said the name, in 


The Ragged Messenger 181 

hard, dry tones — “ and others. Her father is coming too — 
and Lady Tollhurst. Lord Patrington says he particularly 
wants to see you.” 

“ Quite a party, dear ! I promise to be in my place— by 
the side of the hostess.” 

“ The party will be given in the drawing-room— the only 
room I have to receive people in. It is supposed to be the 
drawing-room, although it does n’t always look like one. 
As a great favor, may it be free from all traces of the work ? ” 
Yes, yes we ’ll clear up our litter. I am afraid we are 
rather untidy.” 

” And have a fire here so that the work may proceed — in 
comfort— behind closed doors.” 

” Yes, we ’ll have a fire here — if it be necessary.” 

“You see, I don’t want my friends to feel that they have 
been shown into an office, and I do hope that, for this once, 
you are not expecting any builders or delegates or extra- 
ordinary creatures.” 

“ No,” and Mr. Morton glanced round good-humoredly. 
“There will be only ourselves.” 

“ I will not intrude on Mrs. Morton’s circle,” said Mr. 
Griffiths. 

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Morton. “Of course you must 
come, Mr. Griffiths.” 

“ Madam, you are very kind, but really I would prefer 
not to. Iam sure that I might shock the susceptibilities of 
your fashionable friends.” 

“ Fashionable people are not so easily shocked. You ’ll 
amuse Lady Tollhurst.” 

Mr. Griffiths smiled and shrugged his shoulders deprecat- 
ingly. “ Madam, I feel your kindness, but really, I beg to 
be excused.” 

“ But I can’t excuse you.” 

It seemed that Mrs. Morton was quick to see that by her 
somewhat irritated tone when speaking of the party, she had, 
perhaps, unintentionally wounded a humble and a sensitive 


182 


The Ragged Messenger 

dependent; and that, seeing this, she was eager to repair the 
mischief of ill-considered words. While she urged her in- 
vitation, Morton watched her with a happy smile of appro- 
bation. 

“ Mr. Griffiths, I shall think you very unkind if you still 
refuse. I want you; I have counted on you. Lady Toll- 
hurst has long wished to make your acquaintance; and I 
promised that she should have this pleasure on Wednesday. 
Don’t disappoint us both — please.” 

“ Madam,” said Mr. Griffiths, bowing gallantly, “as you 
frame your bidding, it is a command which I cannot but 
obey.” 

Morton rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, and 
then turned again to his papers. 

“Sir,” said Mr. Bowman, reminding his employer of 
something. “ Mrs. Elyard, sir! ” 

“ What about her?” 

“You asked her to come to tea on Wednesday afternoon.” 

“ Of course, I forgot. Oh, my dear — the lady I have en- 
gaged as matron for our hospital at Talgarth — Mrs. Elyard, 
a good, Christian soul. You won’t mind giving her a cup 
of tea ? ’ ’ 

“ What does it matter if I mind ? You have asked her.” 

“ A splendid woman, dear! ” 

“Mr. Bowman, you, of course, I rely on,” said Mrs. 
Morton. 

Mr. Bowman bowed as he opened the door for his em- 
ployer’s wife. 

The work went on with a brief halt when Mr. Parrott 
brought three breakfast cups of weak tea and three steaks 
of bread and butter upon an iron tray. Then the work went 
on again until dusk enveloped the workers, and it became 
difficult, if not impossible, to read or write. Then the elec- 
tric light was turned on, and, in a dazzling glitter as it 
seemed after the darkness, the work went steadily onward. 


>83 


The Ragged Messenger 

And at last the work — this portion of the work — was done. 
Papers were gathered together; baskets packed and piled 
one on another; Mr. Bigland, chuckling beneath his load, 
trotted up and downstairs as this special branch of the work 
was put to bed for the night. 

“Ah,” said Mr. Griffiths, assisting in the tidying process. 
“Mrs. Morton’s lesson book! Perhaps you will give it to 
her, Mr. Bowman.” 

Mr. Bowman took the book. 

“ How is she getting on, Walter ? ” asked Morton, stretch- 
ing his muscular arms and his strong back, in relief after his 
cramped position at the table. 

“ Very well, sir. But I wanted to ask you if — if you will 
excuse me from going on with the lessons.” 

“ Not go on ? ” 

“ I find it difficult. It occupies time that might be better 
spent. It interferes with the real work.” 

“ Is this truly so? I thought it was a pleasure to you.” 

“All work and no play,” said Mr. Griffiths, “ is a bad 
system! Don’t you think, sir, our young friend needs a 
better sort of relaxation than teaching German — out-of-door 
exercise and so forth ” 

“ Yes, you are right, Griffiths. I will tell my wife; but I 
know she will be disappointed.” 

“It will be very easy,” said Mr. Griffiths, “to find 
another teacher. Some poor German lady to whom it will 
be a real charity.” 

“I shall be glad, sir, to go on till then,” said Mr. Bowman. 

Morton was looking at him with a kindly scrutiny. 

“ Yes, we ’ll manage all right. You look tired and over- 
worked, Bowman. It was thoughtless of me not to notice 
it before.” 


XVI 


T HE hour of Mrs. Morton’s tea-party had arrived. 

Mrs. Morton, seated upon the sofa by the fire, was 
ready to receive her guests. All preparations had been 
made. Not a loose paper, not one stray envelope, remained 
to distress the frivolous with a hint of business toil: even 
Mudie’s books, rendered unsightly by the printed labels so 
mercilessly pasted upon the bright, fresh cloth, had been 
carefully removed. Mr. Bigland’s luxuriously large Bible 
lay hid behind Mr. Bowman’s silver photograph frame. 
There were flowers in beribboned vases — branches of lilac, 
almond blossom and daffodils — and a yellow bowl of prim- 
roses. Over the sofa and the arm-chair had been thrown 
pieces of Oriental muslin of lively, spring-like colors; pink 
shades of crinkly Japanese paper decorated the lamp brackets; 
a new silk cushion had a big bow of blue like a sash taken 
from a party-going child. Upon all these slight efforts after 
beauty and grace, the tortured eyes of Righetti’s Christ 
stared down from the black frame in its old position above 
the mantelpiece. 

Downstairs all provision had been made, all instructions 
given. If Mr. Parrott failed to answer the bell calls, to rally 
to each alarm with appropriate succor — more cups, a fresh 
teapot, hot water — it would not be because nobody had told 
him what to do. But Mr. Parrott had a good sense of the 
importance of his duties, and a clear notion of how to per- 
form them. In the Hospital, where he had once been en- 
gaged, there had been annual banquets, governors’ feasts, 

184 


The Ragged Messenger 185 

or subscribers’ gatherings, at which all able-bodied servitors 
of the institution were called upon to bear a helping hand. 
Mr. Parrott had heard guests — guests of rank — properly an- 
nounced before to-day; he had enjoyed opportunities of 
observing the correct etiquette; there was not much that 
your ordinary toast-master could teach him; he knew the 
need of clarity of enunciation and volume of sound. 

“The Lady Tollhurst,” said Mr. Parrott, in stentorian 
tones, announcing the first guest. 

Lady Tollhurst, sitting on the sofa and patting her young 
friend’s hand really affectionately, at once unfolded a bril- 
liant idea that had occurred to her. Here was an opportunity 
— don’t you know — only second in desirability to the neg- 
lected opportunity offered by Wiltshire House. Very likely 
there might be difficulties, but they must be swept with a 
firm hand. This was a case in which one must put one’s 
foot down, and all opposition “must be put a stop to at 
once.” 

“ My dear, have you heard about Lady Salcombe’s 
Bazaar ? ’ ’ 

“ Oh, yes — a grand affair.” 

Then Lady Tollhurst volubly and excitably explained the 
attractions of the coming bazaar as considered in its social 
aspect. It was going to be very smart. Lady Tollhurst 
confessed that she loathed the word, but no other conveyed 
the meaning. The pretty people, the rich people, the politi- 
cal leaders like Lady Withernsea, the old-fashioned, exclu- 
sive, absolutely un-get-at-able people like the Peverils and 
the Beverleys were all to be assembled. Speaking as self- 
appointed social godmother, and from fifty years’ experience, 
she knew that this was a golden opportunity for making 
one’s dtbut with iclat, upon the right stage, and before a 
picked audience. 

“Opening June the twenty-fourth — at the Albert Hall — 
don’t you know, all the Royalties and that sort of thing. 
Now, you must manage it. You, my dear, must have a stall. ’ ’ 


1 86 The Ragged Messenger 

“ My husband would never consent. It would be so ex- 
pensive.” 

“ But it is for a charity. Don’t you see, you ’ll be able to 
tell him the whole thing is for a charity.” 

“ What is the charity ? ” 

“ I forgot to ask. We ’ll find out that easily enough.” 

“ I am afraid it would cost a lot to furnish a stall,” and 
Mrs. Morton looked at the Oriental muslin and the crinkly 
paper. 

“Of course,” said Lady Tollhurst, “ Lady Salcombe 
does n’t want three hand-painted fans and a pin-cushion. 
Naturally, she is hunting for rich people to do the stalls. 
The duchesses can do the light refreshments.” 

“Yes, I suppose so.” 

‘ ‘ My dear, if you do the thing even recklessly it will be 
money well spent. Such an introduction. As I am always 
telling you, the best people want to know you.” 

“ You are very kind, but ” 

“ Why, my cousin, Lady Westborough ” 

“ Is she a cousin of yours? ” 

“Oh, there’s no end to my cousins, worse luck! She 
saw you that day at Lady Barker’s— I ’m glad you went 
there with me.” 

“ Is n’t it almost a disgrace to go to Lady Barker’s and 
nowhere else ? ’ ’ 

“ Not a bit. Lady Barker invites everybody and nobody 
wants to go. That ’s the only importance of her parties. 
As she does n’t care who she asks, it amounts to a down- 
right insult to be left out.” 

“ I ’m glad. I was afraid people might think ” 

“ Only one person out of ten can think,” said Lady Toll- 
hurst, shrewdly philosophical, “and what that one thinks 
doesn’t matter. Well, Lady Westborough tried to get hold 
of you, but she was shy, so she said she thought she would 
come to-day and bring her daughter.” 

“To-day!” 


The Ragged Messenger 187 

“ Yes, I ’m sure you ’ll like her, and she ’ll simply adore 
your husband.” 

Mr. Parrott with a clarion note made his announcement: 

“The Lord Patrington.” 

His lordship, very dignified, but very benignant, bowed 
over Mrs. Morton’s hand. 

‘ ‘ I am so happy to have found you at home. ’ ’ 

“ But you only came to see my husband.” 

“No, no, to see you.” 

“ He ’ll be here directly.” 

Again Mr. Parrott made himself plainly heard at the open 
door : 

“ Mr. Carpenter.” 

“ Well, it is a family party,” said Lady Tollhurst. 

And now Mr. Parrott was busy. The tea and the cakes 
and the biscuits in charge of his two subordinates had been 
swiftly pushed on from basement to hall; between the an- 
nouncements Mr. Parrott had done good work upstairs; 
brought out a table, then another, laid a tea-cloth, pulled it 
oflf with a coat tail, picked it up, re-laid it, and so forth; but 
every moment the hall door checked him and delayed him. 
In rapid succession, and with megaphone power, he had to 
announce Lady Sarah Joyce; Dr. Colbeck. 

As the party grew, the company, consisting as yet of 
guests mutually acquainted, broke into segments and took 
care of itself without trouble. Dr. Colbeck, for the moment 
in sole possession of the hostess, was talking in friendly 
confidence. 

“Iam glad to see you looking better, Mrs. Morton.” 

“Oh, I am all right.” 

“ Cough gone? ” 

“Nearly.” 

“ And the headaches ? ” 

Mrs. Morton, suddenly looking out of the window — at the 
cabs and vans which at all times gave life to the Square — 
nodded her head. 


1 88 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Ah, you have benefited by my prescription. Lady Toll- 
hurst’s medicine! No such tonic as a little harmless excite- 
ment and amusement; and, luckily, you ladies are able to 
excite yourselves so easily.” 

Mrs. Morton laughed. 

“That ’s right,” said Dr. Colbeck. “When patients 
laugh our task is nearly at an end. ’ ’ And glancing at the 
others he turned away, as though in fear lest he might ap- 
pear to be unduly monopolizing the attention of the party- 
giver. 

“Doctor.” 

Mrs. Morton, still looking at the vans, called him back. 

“Yes.” 

“ When you were in practice, did you ever attend the 
lower classes ? * ’ 

“Sometimes.” 

“ If a poor patient wanted port wine, carriage exercise, 
and a villa on the Riviera, but of course could n’t get it, did 
you prescribe all that just the same ? ” 

“Hardly.” 

“Well, you have done that to me — I have n’t the money 
to follow your prescription, and my husband won’t give it to 
me.” 

“Iam mystified” — Dr. Colbeck was looking at her with 
interrogation and doubt in his keen eyes — “really, I think 
Morton has been teaching you the trick of his dark sayings.” 

At this moment Mr. Parrott, simply from over-zealous- 
ness, committed a solecism. Flinging wide the door, he 
announced with the utmost enthusiasm: 

“The Reverend Mr. Morton.” 

“Ah, my dear Morton,” cried Lord Patrington, with 
exuberant delight, “at last one sees you again”; and all 
hastened to welcome their host. 

“Have you been with them?” he asked Lady Sarah, 
drawing her aside, as soon as the general greeting was ac- 
complished. 


The Ragged Messenger 189 

“All the afternoon. I wish you could have seen their 
gratitude.” 

“ Poor souls! ” 

“They blessed your name.” 

“ It was yours they should have blessed, for discovering 
their misery.” 

At last the tea-tray and the cakes had arrived. Mr. Par- 
rott and the two little maids were arranging matters with 
slow dexterity, and Mrs. Morton was hastily filling the first 
cup. 

“Do you know, Mr. Morton,” said Lady Tollhurst, 
“that the Bishop of Winchboro is perfectly furious with 
you ? ” 

“No. Is he?” Morton was looking round the room. 
“Ah, tea!” And he went to the door, opened it, and 
called: “ Mr. Griffiths — Bigland!” 

“Who ’s he summoning like that?” asked Lady Toll- 
hurst. 

“You know,” Mrs. Morton, offering the tea-cup, whis- 
pered. 

“Oh, yes. The funny old gentleman. And the other? 
Is he the ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ No — really — how interesting! ” 

Old Mr. Bigland, shyly ambling about the room, was 
stopped by Lady Sarah, and, talking to her, almost immedi- 
ately began to chuckle in great contentment. Mr. Griffiths 
modestly effaced himself in the farthest background. Mr. 
Carpenter was assisting Mrs. Morton at the tea-table. 

“I beg your pardon,” said Morton, returning to Lady 
Tollhurst. “You should tell the Bishop of Winchboro not 
to indulge his angry passions.” 

“ He will be at Lambeth if he lives.” 

“I daresay. Our member, Mr. Richard Hammick ” 

“ I know,” Lord Patrington interpolated. “ City man — 
common, pushing fellow! ” 


190 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Kindly, but foolish. He made some application to the 
Bishop as though on my behalf.” 

“ Most officious,” said L,ord Patrington, sympathetically. 

‘ ‘ So his lordship wrote to inquire if I wanted to return to 
the fold — as the Archbishop was prepared to give me the 
great poor parish of St. Bertrand.” 

“Yes, but what did you reply?” said Eady Tollhurst, 
smiling. 

“No.” 

“ The stipend did not tempt you! ” said L,ord Patrington, 
with admiring sympathy. 

“ Then his lordship wrote to say that it was wrong not to 
submit to the supreme authority, and that every priest should 
have a parish. I think I answered befittingly.” 

“Did you?” Eady Tollhurst was smiling as though 
listening to some popular and mischievously entertaining 
humorist. 

“ I told him, like Wesley — that my parish was the world; 
and I added that my supreme authority is said to have left 
his earthly see nearly two thousand years ago.” 

“Oh, dear! ” 

“The old boy replied quite curtly.” 

“You really are, you know — ” Eady Tollhurst was en- 
raptured — “you really are wonderful ” 

“Morton,” said Eord Patrington, taking him by the arm 
and speaking very confidentially — “I — er — should like a 
word with you — if it be possible. ’ ’ 

Once more Mr. Parrott opened the door to announce 
people. 

“Mr. Hammick: Mr. Gavell.” 

“ My dear sir, how are you ? ” Mr. Hammick was a large, 
bald man, and he shook Morton’s hand with effusive fervor 
— “To gratify his ardent wish, I have brought my valued 
friend — Mr. Clement Gavell ” — Mr. Gavell grasped the hand 
of his host with equal if not greater fervor — “You are ac- 
quainted with his writings on the Economics of Charity.” 


The Ragged Messenger 19 1 

“Mine is a barren province,” said Mr. Gavell, looking 
about him — “ the field of speculation. Where I theorize you 
have experimented.” 

“A very remarkable man,” said Mr. Hammick, in a 
whisper. “You will thank me for the introduction. He 
has quite an epoch-making scheme for your consideration.” 

Morton conducted the newcomers to the tea-table, and 
presented them to his wife. 

Dr. Colbeck, taking a vacant seat by Lady Tollhurst, 
spoke with mock gravity, imitating the tone of the member 
of Parliament. 

“ A most interesting gathering.” 

“So it is,” said Lady Tollhurst. “ It ’s not a bit worse 
than Lady Barker’s.” 

Mrs. Morton had drawn Mr. Griffiths from his modest re- 
treat by the farthest window, and had smilingly compelled 
him to take a plate of cakes and aid her, as Mr. Carpenter 
was doing. 

“ Do you mind offering them ? ” 

Mr. Griffiths bowed, and carried the cakes behind Lady 
Tollhurst’ s chair. 

“ I want,” said Lady Tollhurst, “to get hold of the tame 
detective — such an original idea! Where ’s the detective 
hidden? ” 

Mr. Griffiths solemnly offered the cakes. 

“Oh, my goodness!” Lady Tollhurst had started 
violently. “Thanks. You made me jump, don’t you 
know.” 

“Let me gratify your wish,” said Dr. Colbeck, blandly, 
introducing: “Mr. Griffiths, Lady Tollhurst.” 

“ And you really are, Mr. Griffiths,” said Lady Tollhurst, 
pleasantly; “you really are the genuine article ? ” 

“Oh, yes — absolutely.” 

“ Delightful! ” 

Mrs. Morton, watchful as a good hostess should be, count- 
ing her guests had missed some one. Going to the door, she 


192 


The Ragged Messenger 

opened it and called out, “Mr. Bowman! Mr. Bowman!” 
and at once the young man appeared. 

“Why didn’t you come in before? I couldn’t think 
where you were.’’ 

Mr. Hammick, sipping his tea, was studying faces while 
he talked to Mr. Morton. 

“ Surely that is the Earl of Patrington — yes — to be sure! ’’ 

Mrs. Morton provided Mr. Bowman with tea and bread 
and butter, and then came to see that Eady Tollhurst was 
adequately supplied. 

“ My dear, I am thoroughly enjoying myself. Most amus- 
ing! ” 

“ Won’t you have some more tea ? ’’ 

“No, thank you. Have you asked your husband about 
the bazaar ? ’ ’ 

Mrs. Morton shook her head. 

“ It ’s no good. I am certain he will say no.” 

“Well, my dear, if the worst comes to the worst, you 
must sell in the crowd — button-holes or photographs or some- 
thing.” 

“ That reminds me,” said Mr. Carpenter. “ Mrs. Morton, 
Hayling wants as many photographs as possible before you 
give him another sitting.” 

“ I have n’t one. I have n’t been photographed for 
years.” 

“ How extraordinary,” said Eady Tollhurst. “ You must 
go to Burrell. Who is Hayling? ” 

“ The painter. He is doing my portrait on glass — a win- 
dow.” 

“ How original! ” 

“ And foolish. A silly idea of my husband’s or Mr. Car- 
penter’s — I don’t know which deserves the credit.” 

“ Mr. Morton does,” said Carpenter. 

“ I don’t mind being painted,” said Mrs. Morton. “ It ’s 
certain not to be like me. But photographers always made 
me too horrible.” 


193 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ You need n’t,” said Lady Tollhurst, “ be afraid of them 
yet. 1 am, I admit.” 

“ So you must please tell Mr. Hayling to do without my 
photograph, for the simple reason that there is n’t one in 
existence.” 

Mr. Griffiths interposed with respectful gallantry. 

‘‘Iam glad to say that ’s not quite correct. I have one 
of you, Mrs. Morton.” 

“ Where did you get it ? ” 

“ I took it myself — only a snapshot — one morning when 
you and Mr. Morton went to see those injured men at the 
hospital — a little group — you were stooping over the bedside 
of a poor fellow. It ’s a pretty picture.” 

“ I know it ’s hateful.” 

“ No, I assure you. I noticed there were none of your 
photographs about, so I had it enlarged. I ’ll show it to you 
and you ’ll own it ’s a success.” 

“ If I do, you must give it to me.” 

Mr. Griffiths bowed and smiled, and then strolled away. 

‘‘Upon my word,” said Lady Tollhurst, ‘‘you would 
never guer 3 from his manner. Quite the man of the world! ” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Carpenter, “ but he always gives me an 
uncomfortable sensation, don’t you know, of being wanted .” 

“ That must be a strange sensation to you, Bertie.” And 
Lady Tollhurst laughed very heartily at her own little 
joke. 

The cluster of guests by the tea-table had become disin- 
tegrated. Host and hostess were side by side. Mr. Ham- 
mick, watching and waiting for his opportunity, had 
button-holed Lord Patrington. 

“ I had the pleasure of meeting you at luncheon — the 
opening of the Stockwell Railway Extension — a very delight- 
ful party.” 

“ Oh — ah — yes.” 

“ You responded for the Upper, and I for the Lower 

House.” 

*3 


194 


The Ragged Messenger 

“What’s this?” said Morton, approaching Lady Toll- 
hurst, “ about Lady Salcombe’s bazaar — and stalls?” 

“ Your wife is to take one.” 

“ Is it for a worthy object? ” 

“Excellent,” said Eady Tollhurst, hastily. “I ’ll send 
you full particulars— to-morrow.” 

‘ ‘ How much will the stall cost ? ’ ’ 

“ Five hundred — to do it well.” 

Morton laughed. 

‘ ‘ Five hundred ! That ought to bring at least one hundred 
to the charity.” 

“Oh, quite.” 

“ Well, if your charity is really worthy, Eady Tollhurst, 
we ’ll do better than that. I ’ll send a check for two hun- 
dred in my wife’s name. That ’s more in my and my wife’s 
line than your fashionable pastime — is n’t it, Eady Sarah? ” 

“ I am not sure,” said Eady Sarah, slowly. 

“No?” 

* ‘ 1 think the excitement — the fun of the thing — might do 
Mrs. Morton good.” 

‘ ‘ Excitement ! Fun ! ” 

“ I mean,” said Eady Sarah, hurriedly, “ I think Mrs. 
Morton is looking pale and tired. I think she is in the 
house too much — doesn’t go about enough — ” then, feebly, 
“Don’t you think so, Aunt Kate?” 

‘ ‘ I am sure of it. ” 

“You alarm me”; and Morton looked towards his wife, 
who was giving Mr. Gavell his third cup of tea. “ To me, 
she is all sunshine.” 

“I don’t mean,” said Eady Sarah, “that I think her 
really ill.” 

“ But if she be ill, the open air and bright flowers of the 
country should be the cure — not the electric light and car- 
mined maidens of a fashionable bazaar. I must speak to 
Colbeck.s’ 


XVII 


HE party was a success. The guests were taking care 



1 of themselves; everybody was talking; nobody seemed 
in an unflattering hurry to get away. 

“ 1 happened,” said Mr. Hammick, “to be sitting next His 
Royal Highness at the banquet.” 

“ It was your right to be there,” said Mr. Gavell. 

“ He explained the whole organization to me,” Mr. Ham- 
mick continued, “ and I said,” — Mr. Hammick turned to 
Mr. Morton — “ I said: ‘Sir, I can but subscribe my mite. 
Put me down, sir, for two hundred and fifty guineas ’ ” — He 
looked very hard at Mr. Morton, and seemed rather crest- 
fallen when Mr. Morton said nothing — ‘ ‘ I suppose to a man 
of your vast means, two-fifty really appears to be a mite. 
His Royal Highness pronounced it munificent.” 

“ The measure of our means is always the same, Mr. 
Hammick. If it was all, or a little more than you could 
afford, it was munificent.” 

Mr. Hammick stared blankly. 

Mrs. Morton had just introduced young Mr. Bowman to 
Eady Tollhurst. 

“ Mr. Bowman is tremendously clever — my tutor, you 
know.” 

“Really.” 

“A great linguist,” said Mrs. Morton. “He helps me 
with my German.” 

Morton, leaving Mr. Hammick still staring, joined them. 

“ But you are to have a holiday. Walter has asked 


196 The Ragged Messenger 

to be let off these lessons. We have been overworking 
him.” 

“ Is that so? ” asked Mrs. Morton, looking at the young 
man. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Bowman. “ I am sorry.” 

“ A walking encyclopaedia,” said Morton. “ Lady Toll- 
hurst, I don’t know what I should do without him.” 

Mr. Parrott announced another visitor. 

“ Mrs. Elyard.” 

Mrs. Elyard came into the room briskly, then stopped 
abruptly, as though surprised at finding herself among so 
many people. She was a hard-visaged woman of about 
forty; very severely and sombrely dressed: not in a nurse’s 
costume, but with the long cloak of the nurse-uniform worn 
above her dark gown. 

“Ah, Mrs. Elyard, welcome, welcome,” and Morton in- 
stantly took charge of her. 

“ I really must be going,” said Lady Tollhurst, rising, 
after a glance at her little watch. 

“ My dear, Mrs. Elyard,” and Morton led the new visitor 
to a chair. “ Colbeck ; Mrs. Elyard, our new matron — a 
lady of great experience. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Morton bowed very coldly and returned to the tea- 
table. Dr. Colbeck shook hands cordially, and stood talking 
to Mrs. Elyard. 

“Yes — of course — you were in command at the Benham 
Nursing Institute.” 

“ Five years, sir.” 

Mr. Carpenter advanced with Mrs. Elyard’ s cup of tea, 
Mrs. Morton following with the milk and sugar. She spoke 
to Lady Tollhurst in passing. 

“ Don’t go. Are you frightened away by the new 
arrival ? ’ ’ 

Dr. Colbeck coughed loudly, but could see that Mrs. 
Elyard had heard this remark. She rose from her chair im- 
mediately, and stood to receive the milk. 


i 9 7 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ I don’t know what ’ll happen to my poor horses,” said 
Lady Tollhurst, “ but I suppose a few minutes more can’t 
hurt ’em,” and she sat down again. “ Well, Mr. Bowman, 
you have n’t told me how you came to know our host. You 
don’t preach ? ” 

“Oh, no.” 

“You knew him before he came into his fortune? ” 

“ Yes, Mr. Morton saved me from a great danger.” 

“ My goodness! What a wonderful man he is. What 
was the danger ? Trains ? ’ ’ 

“ I was in danger of starving.” 

Dr. Colbeck and Mrs. Elyard were listening. Mrs. Mor- 
ton had made a gesture as though to silence him, but Mr. 
Bowman did not appear to have observed it. 

“Good gracious!” cried Lady Tollhurst, aghast. “Do 
you really mean ” 

“ I should have died if he had not brought me food.” 

“No?” 

‘ ‘ So you see, Lady Tollhurst, I am bound to him by the 
heaviest of all chains — gratitude.” 

Dr. Colbeck looked at him with complete approval, and 
spoke in a grave, kind voice. 

“You carry your chain in the best way, my dear sir. We 
can’t always pay our debts. It ’s something to acknowledge 
them.” 

“I ’ve never had a debt of that sort,” said Mrs. Elyard, 
putting down her cup and glancing at Mrs. Morton as though 
wondering if it would be replenished. “ But I ’ve paid all 
the others.” 

Mrs. Morton did not notice the empty cup. She was 
watching Mr. Bowman as he silently slipped away and 
returned to the work in the library. 

“You are lucky,” said Dr. Colbeck, “to be able to say 
that, Mrs. Elyard. I always liked working with your 
nurses. You trained them well.” 

“ They needed a firm hand, sir.” 


198 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ No doubt — a certain discipline.” 

“ Not to be relaxed for a moment.” 

‘ ‘ That sounds rather severe. But the result was satisfac- 
tory. ’ ’ 

“ I had thirty of them under me for five years, and no 
serious complaints, and only one scandal.” 

“Scandal?” 

“ I must hear this,” said Lady Tollhurst, on the point of 
going, but unable to tear herself away. 

“It was a grave scandal,” said Mrs. Elyard, drawing in 
her breath. “But I think I acted rightly, although I lost 
my place through it. If you knew what nurses really were, 
sir ’ ’ 

“ Troublesome, eh ? ” 

“ And the married ones are always the worst.” 

Morton, standing behind the others, was listening atten- 
tively. Mrs. Elyard, looking up, met his eyes, and he gave 
her a friendly smile. 

“Ah, well, well,” said Dr. Colbeck. 

“ But what,” asked Lady Tollhurst, “ was the scandal? ” 

“ A young married woman, my lady.” 

“Yes, yes, ’ ’ said Dr. Colbeck. “No doubt you smoothed 
it over very properly.” 

“Dr. Colbeck, don’t interrupt,” said Lady Tollhurst. 
“ Well, you were going to tell us ” 

* ‘ She was a good nurse, but — well, I kept my eye on her. 
Her husband was a gas-fitter, living in Somers Town.” 

“ Somers Town! ” Lady Tollhurst murmured the word 
sympathetically. 

“ Our night porter was a bachelor — and his place was in 
the basement. ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“Voices had been heard one night in the downstairs cor- 
ridor. It might have been the porter talking to himself” — 
Mrs. Elyard smiled grimly— “ or it might have been one of 
the nurses who had joined him after the lights were out.” 


*99 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ And was that,” asked Lady Tollhurst, “ against the rules 
of the institution ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, against the rules of the institution, and in my 
opinion, against all other rules, my lady.” 

“Oh!” 

“ But perhaps I had better leave the subject there.” 

“ Well — perhaps — ” said Dr. Colbeck. 

“No, no,” said Lady Tollhurst. “Most interesting. Go 
on. Well?” 

“I acted on my suspicions — and they proved correct. 
After the wards were closed for the night, I quietly brought 
a chair to the lobby commanding my lady’s door and sat 
down. I had n’t long to wait. Thirty minutes after the 
lights were out, she joined him.” 

“ And what did you do ? ” 

“ Oh,” said Mrs. Elyard, very grimly, “ I went quietly to 
bed. Next morning I summoned my whole staff and I de- 
nounced her — denounced her before them all — nurses and 
men — and sent her packing, to tell what tale she could to the 
husband she had wronged.” Mrs. Elyard looked round. 
“And I think I acted rightly.” 

“ I think it was horrible,” said Mrs. Morton. 

“It was very severe,” said Dr. Colbeck. “The poor 
husband ” 

“I can only say,” Lady Tollhurst observed, “that sort 
of thing would revolutionize society.” 

“Why did n’t you stop her,” said Mrs. Morton, “ tell her 
she was discovered, and dismiss her ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes,” said Dr. Colbeck, “without the public shame.” 

“Why should I spare her? She had broken God’s law.” 

Morton spoke in a low, firm voice: 

“You are right. You acted rightly.” 

“Ah! ” and Mrs. Elyard drew in her breath with intense 
satisfaction, “you think so?” 

“We can show no mercy for such a sin. Marriage is a 
sacrament — and the woman had broken her vow to God. 


200 The Ragged Messenger 

Cost what it might, our friend is right, she must suffer for 
her sin.” 

‘‘A hard law, Morton,” said Colbeck, “and a hard judge 
that knows no mercy.” 

“ But the law was not made on earth.” 

“ I can’t think it right. Would you have done it in this 
lady’s place? ” 

“Yes — though the woman had been my sister — though it 
cost me a lifetime’s grief. I would pray never to be called 
to judge such a sinner — but I should pray that I might do 
my duty.” 

Mr. Parrott, advancing a few steps into the room, in dread 
of failing to attract attention, really bellowed his new an- 
nouncement: 

“The Lady Westborough and Miss Weston.” 

Lady Westborough was handsome, painted, beautifully 
dressed. Miss Weston, a pretty girl of twenty-two or three, 
had a charming smile and an extremely nervous manner. 
Mother and daughter, with unerring accuracy, discovered 
their hostess in a moment, and shook hands with her as 
though she had been a long-lost friend. 

“ A drawing-room meeting ? ” said Lady Westborough. 

“How very nice,” said Miss Weston. 

“That was Mr. Morton speaking?” said Lady West- 
borough. “But I do hope he has not finished. What is 
the topic of discussion ? ’ ’ 

“How late you are,” said Lady Tollhurst, “I’m just 
going.” 

Miss Weston was looking at the pictures and the furni- 
ture. She turned to Mrs. Morton in rapture, and said with 
her charming smile: 

“ What a lovely house! ” 

“ Do you think so? ” 

“ Yes, indeed — too lovely for words.” 

“ Emmeline! ” said Lady Westborough, sharply. 

But it was useless for her mother to try to stop her. The 


201 


The Ragged Messenger 

poor child was like a pretty clock-work toy wound up and 
fairly started on her little performance. When taken into 
strange houses she always expressed rapture, and she had to 
express it now. Rendered a little more nervous by mamma’s 
sharp voice, but smiling as prettily as ever, she told Mrs. 
Morton that it was the dearest, sweetest house that as yet 
she had ever seen. Then the clock-work ran down abruptly, 
and she lapsed into smiling silence. 

Mr. Hammick was going, and had been waiting to say 
good-bye. 

“ What my friend Gavell has been most impressed with is 
the absence of all splendor — the studied simplicity of your 
house. ’ * 

“Knowing, as I do,” said Mr. Gavell, “your lavish ex- 
penditure in other directions. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Mr. Hammick, shaking hands, “immensely 
impressed. It is not every lady who would second your 
husband’s great views as you do.” 

Morton had come forward to bid adieu to his guests. 

“ My wife and I think alike, Mr. Hammick. We have 
both known poverty. When this lady honored me by ac- 
cepting my hand, our prospects were certain toil and pos- 
sible want. So now, you understand, we are lodged like 
princes.” 

“I don’t despair,” said Mr. Gavell at the door, “of in- 
teresting you in my scheme. If you can’t assist me now — 
perhaps later.” 

When Mr. Morton came back into the room Lord Patring- 
ton took him by the arm. 

“ You have such a reception, my dear fellow, that it is im- 
possible to get hold of you ” 

As he spoke Lord Patrington was drawing his host as far 
away from the guests as possible. Looking round and see- 
ing that they were alone, in the embrasure of one of the big 
windows, he continued hurriedly: “The fact is, Morton, I 


202 The Ragged Messenger 

have come to crave your assistance. I am horribly in want 
of money.” 

“ In want of money ! What for ? ” 

“ Necessities. Sarah costs me a great deal with her fad — 
her philanthropy. I don’t say if you can — if you will lend 
me ” 

“ Money? To gild your brass harness, buy new carpets, 
and give a party at ten shilling a head. No, my friend.” 

“You refuse?” 

“You heard what those men said? I hold this money in 
trust. Our carpets are shabby; our harness does n’t exist. 
If Lady Sarah wants money she shall have it. The powers 
of my trust enable me to give to her, but not to you, old 
boy.” 

“That is sufficient, Mr. Morton.” 

Lord Patrington waved his arm with a very dignified 
gesture, and, turning on his heel, went towards the tea-table 
in search of his hat. “Are you coming, Sarah?” And, 
without further ceremony, his lordship stalked out of the 
room, and out of the house. 

“Good-bye, my dear,” said Lady Tollhurst. “I never 
enjoyed myself more.” 

“Good-bye, dear Mrs. Morton,” said Lady Westborough, 
a little later, “ I hope you ’ll come and see me soon.” 

“Thanks.” 

“ I want so much to get your help in some work of mine. 
We really are doing good work and only lack the sinews of 
war.” 

“ I fear,” said Mrs. Morton, coldly, “ that it will not be in 
my power to assist you.” 

‘ ‘ Really! ” said Lady Westborough, with a lift of the care- 
fully pencilled eyebrows and a sudden change of manner. 
“It is certainly in your power , but of course — good-bye.” 

“ Good-bye, dear Mrs. Morton,” said Miss Weston, smiling 
sweetly; and Mr. Carpenter, also saying good-bye escorted 
the smile downstairs to the carriage. 


The Ragged Messenger 


203 


Morton, as though he had learned how to do it from Eord 
Patrington, drew Dr. Colbeck into the window and talked 
to him in a low, anxious voice. 

“ No, no,” said Colbeck, “ nothing whatever alarming.” 

“You are sure ? ” 

“ Quite. There is a tendency to chest weakness — enough 
to justify care, but nothing more.” 

‘ ‘ And you advise ? ” 

“Well, I think it might be good to try a change of air — 
and, what ’s far more effective, a change of scene.” 

“Yes.” 

“You know,” said Dr. Colbeck, shaking hands very cor- 
dially, “ the common round, the daily task does n’t wind up 
the spring of life for all of us as it does for you, my iron- 
nerved friend.” 

Morton stood lost in thought while Colbeck thanked his 
hostess and made his departure. He was roused from his 
reverie by Mrs. Elyard. 

“ I have waited for an opportunity to tell you, sir, that I 
wish you to release me from my engagement. ’ ’ 

“ Release yon ? ” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Elyard, firmly. 

“But why? I have counted on you as a tower of strength.” 

“ I hope I should have done my duty, sir,” — she was look- 
ing at Mrs. Morton, who had just sat down very wearily on 
a chair near the window — “ I love my -work. But I should 
never give you satisfaction.” 

“ Why not ? What has changed your opinion ? ” 

“I think Mrs. Morton has taken a dislike to me,” — she 
was looking straight at her hostess — “I think she would 
prefer a different matron.” 

“ What an idea! My dear, tell her she is wrong.” 

“ Certainly. What can it matter to me who the matron 
is?” 

“ I understood you worked side by side with your husband, 
ma’am. He spoke of you as his right hand; but if ” 


204 


The Ragged Messenger 

Morton lifted his wife’s hand and held it in his. 

“ And so she is, Mrs. Elyard, and more — my prop, my 
staff, my guiding star.” 

“So I understood,” said Mrs. Elyard, dryly. 

“ And she asks j^ou, as I do, to come to us and help us.” 

“ Is that so, ma’am ? ” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morton, impassively, looking straight in 
front of her. “ Of course.” 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

“That ’s right,” said Morton, cheerfully, and he shook 
hands with Mrs. Elyard, and then conducted her to the hall. 
Mrs. Elyard had seemed at first to consider it necessary to 
make a formal leave-taking of her hostess, but Mrs. Morton 
had turned her back and did not see this departing guest. 

“Good-bye,” said Mr. Griffiths, smiling and polite. 
“That lady has a great notion of her own dignity, I fancy. 
But she paid me a compliment. Said she thought mine was 
one of the most delightful callings a man could follow.” 

“ Good-bye,” said Eady Sarah, with shy constraint in her 
voice, “ I tried to help you — in the way you asked.” 

“Thank you, good-bye.” 

Morton had returned after seeing out Mrs. Elyard. 

“ You have your carriage ? ” 

“ No,” said Lady Sarah, “ I want to walk. I can get a 
bus when I am tired.” 

“I ’ll walk with you a little way. I have a telegram to 
send.” 


XVIII 


T HK party was over. 

Mrs. Morton, standing in one of the windows, looked 
down into the garden of the square, and watched the even- 
ing shadows falling. Through the glass one could hear the 
ceaseless tapping of the horses’ iron hoofs upon the asphalt 
as the stream of traffic flowed steadily northwards. Certain 
sounds — the harsh grating of a wheel against the curb-stone, 
the metallic rumbling of a wagon laden with steel girders — 
produced a faint tinkling vibration in the glass itself. The 
eastward shadow of the corner house, seen beneath the 
branches of the two big planes by the smoke-stained railings, 
had fallen right across Gower Street, making a shadowy 
cave, into the wide mouth of which the traffic disappeared. 
Already it was impossible to distinguish the colors on the 
station cabs and omnibuses and vans, to pick out the rich 
umber of the Midland from the light brown of the South- 
Western, or mark the subtle differences of tint-combination 
between the North-Western and the Great-Western. They 
passed like black and white sketches of dull London life; 
street-boats on the sluggish river of colorless life. Black 
coats all, the daily passengers, filling the pavement from 
Bloomsbury Street — clerks and more clerks, with inky 
fingers and strained eyes, homeward bound after all the 
weary hours — only here and there the figure of a girl just 
indicated in the mass of males, squeezed tight against 
brother, cousin, sweetheart, with a gloved hand faintly 
sketched upon the black arm. 

205 


206 


The Ragged Messenger 

Mr. Parrott, with his two little maids, was noisily remov- 
ing the tea-things, folding tea-cloths, replacing tables, picking 
up cake-crumbs. At last the stage was cleared from the 
debris of the recent festivities. The two little maids retired 
with the two cups and saucers that had endeavored to escape 
their vigilance by taking unsuspected positions and simulat- 
ing ordinary ornaments upon the mantelpiece. Mr. Parrott, 
giving a final look round, considered the red fire and decided 
that coals would be premature. 

“ I hope, ma’am,” said Mr. Parrott with a modest cough, 
but in really ill-disguised self-confidence, “that you had no 
cause for complaint.” 

“No,” said Mrs. Morton. “ It was all right, thank you.” 

“Thank you, ma’am. I am very glad.” 

“ Has everybody gone? ” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“Has Mr. Griffiths gone?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“ Did you let him out yourself? ” 

“Yes, ma’am. He went out along of Mr. Bigland.” 

“ Where is Mr. Bowman ? ” 

“I have n’t noticed him go out. Shall I see if he is in 
the house, ma’am ? ” 

“ No, you need not disturb him.” 

Mrs. Morton stood in the window for some time after Mr. 
Parrott had descended to the circle of the servants to recount 
his triumphs. Then she went to the library door, opened 
it, and called softly: 

“Mr. Bowman.” 

She had gone back to the fireplace and was looking into 
the fire, when the young man appeared in the shadow of the 
doorway. 

“You called me ? ” 

“Yes.” 

She did not look round or speak again until he had closed 
the door behind him and come to the middle of the room. 


The Ragged Messenger 


207 


“Why don’t you want to go on teaching me ? ” 

“ It interferes with the work.” 

“That ’s not the real reason. You are not afraid of the 
extra work.” 

“ I have a great deal to do.” 

“And why did you make that speech about your grati- 
tude? You saw I did n’t want you to go over all that.” 

“ I was questioned. I had to answer.” 

“You have a strange way of showing your gratitude — by 
refusing me the only pleasure of my life.” 

“ I am very sorry.” 

“You are cleverer than other people. You know that I 
am bored to death, that I would do anything to forget 
myself and my surroundings — this horrible house and its 
endless talk of charity and religion — that imbecile old man, 
and Mr. Griffiths and the rest of it. You know that, don’t 
you?” 

“Yes.” 

“You know that I flung myself into my work with you 
as a momentary escape — that the hours we spent over our 
books were happy because they gave me occupation and a 
respite from the life I hate.” 

“ I am sorry.” 

“ You pretended that you liked helping me.” 

“ It was not pretence.” 

“ Then why do you abandon it? You have some reason, 
and I must know it.” 

“ I have given my reason.” 

“ Don’t suppose I ’m too dense to see there was meaning 
in what you said when I tried to stop you just now. There 
was an insult to me, and you meant it, in the way you spoke 
of your gratitude.” 

“You can’t think that.” 

“What else can I think? You meant that I was bound 
by the same chain. You were reminding me of my duty.” 

“No, no.” 


208 


The Ragged Messenger 

“You have sat in judgment on me and found me wanting 
— lacking in gratitude to our master. You know I am mis- 
erable and defenceless, and that the dull ears about us won’t 
catch the insult of your voice.’ * 

“ I would rather die than wound you.” 

“ Then why are you so hard ? Why have you no pity for 
me? I tell you I am wretched.” 

“You must n’t tell me that.” 

“You know it. You can see it.” 

“ I must n’t see it. I must n’t think of it.” 

“You must n’t think of your fellow-slave sinking under 
the weight of the chain.” 

“ Don’t say such horrible things.” 

“Why not? It ’s the horrible truth. Are you afraid of 
the truth?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you ? It ’s better to face the truth.” 

“Then you shall have it. I was talking to myself when 
I spoke of my burden of debt — not to you; but to the devil 
within me, warmed back to life by the fire of charity — to 
the traitor that I have struggled with night and day — to the 
love that was burning and torturing me.” 

“Ah!” 

She held out her hand as though to ward him off. 

“And this is the truth. I love you better than truth, bet- 
ter than faith, better than honor, and would suffer eternal 
fires to hold you in my arms like this.” 

“ My poor fellow-slave! ” 

She lay quite passive in his arms until, freeing her lips 
from his, she whispered again: 

“ My poor fellow-slave! ” 

Then, suddenly, she writhed in his embrace and put her 
hand over his mouth to keep him silent. 

“Hush!” 

Rapidly, she pushed him away and down into the arm- 
chair; then sprang to the other side of the hearth, and sank 


The Ragged Messenger 209 

upon the sofa. She had been the first to hear the footsteps 
on the stairs. 

Morton, coming into the room, unconscious that there was 
anybody in it, closed the door; and, moving slowly and 
cautiously, groped with his hand upon the wall for one of 
the iron switches. 

“ Don’t turn on the lamp — I like — the half light.” 

“ Dearest! I did n’t see you,” and he came towards her. 
“ And Bowman! ” He sat beside her on the sofa. “ Both 
weary with much company ? ” 

“ Yes,” she said. “I am tired. The twilight rests my 
eyes. ’ ’ 

“ Blind man’s holiday — I like it too. The best hour in 
the day, the worker’s hour, the children’s hour — when the 
tales of ghosts and goblins are told and the shadows stand 
listening behind the chairs — and the future lies bright in the 
dull heart of the fire. What has the fire been showing to 
you two children ? ’ ’ 

“A great deal.” 

“ And to you, Walter ? ” 

“ Everything.” 

“I ’ll tell you a fable — if you like; of a selfish old prince; 
and a beautiful princess, his wife; and their faithful young 
servant. My prince was very happy, but very selfish; so he 
never saw what was plain to all his wise men and wise 
women; that the princess was pale and pining for the sun- 
shine that never came into the grim old castle, and that his 
brave young servant was worn and weary for want of the 
rest that the castle never knew. With a scratch of the pen 
or a wave of his sceptre, the selfish old prince could bring 
sunshine and rest into the lives of the two beings he most 
loved on earth. But he never thought of it, till warning 
words set him thinking — He was slow to think, but quick 
to act. Can you read my fable ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“I am that selfish man — and this is the grim castle; but I 
14 


210 


The Ragged Messenger 

have telegraphed to my Tord Talgarth accepting his offer; 
and his beautiful country house is ours to go to when we 
please. I have hired his golden sunlight and his sleepy 
meadows — brightness for my pale princess, and rest for my 
weary clerk.” 


XIX 

T ALGARTH PARK was a beautiful, if not a splendid, 
place. 

Situated within easy access of the heart of the metropolis, 
in the rustic neighborhood whose sylvan charms have hap- 
pily been conserved uninjured, with an unusually good train 
service, church, post- and telegraph -office at the park gates, 
this ideal, moderate-sized mansion, rich in internal treasures 
of the highest taste and surrounded by mature gardens and 
ornamental grounds of exquisite loveliness, offers a unique 
retreat for a nobleman or gentleman who desires the pleas- 
ures of the country and yet cannot altogether sever himself 
from the avocations of the town. “ Or would also be sold,” 
the estate agents in Pall Mall added lamely; as if they had 
tired themselves by their descriptive flight and were glad to 
find themselves on solid ground again. But their noble 1 
client, having taken what was, to their mind, the somewhat 
improper course of finding a tenant for himself, they now 
had instructions to remove “ the same ” from their register 
until the twenty-ninth of September next ensuing. 

The train service was really sufficient; although at the 
little station the two platforms had four metal roads between 
them, and waiting passengers suffered the mortification of 
seeing the big expresses tear along the two centre roads — 
contemptuous tornadoes of screaming iron and rattling wood- 
work — making an obsequious column of dust hurry after 
them until it collapsed by the book-stall, where the papers 
were fluttering sympathetically. But there were always 


211 


212 


The Ragged Messenger 

honest jog-trot trains that deigned to recognize a station 
when they saw it, and, sedately halting, kindly delivered 
Mr. Morton’s household provisions, Mr. Morton’s hospital 
stores, Mr. Morton’s little visitors, Mr. Morton’s doctors, 
nurses, matron, workmen, etc., etc. 

The station gates were at one end of the little village 
street, the park gates were at the other. Past the white 
lodge— where one of Lord Talgarth’s ancient retainers, an 
ex-coachman, stood respectfully to attention upon a flagged 
path amidst his roses and heliotrope, and mentally disparaged 
all horses and drivers that passed thereby — the gravel road 
turned through a small beech wood and showed one almost 
at once the chimneys of the house. In the street itself, be- 
tween the churchyard wall and the post-office, there was a 
smaller gate, and a path through the park to the lower 
gardens — a nearer way for all who could walk. Driving or 
walking, the distance to this most accessible mansion was not 
worth speaking of — except by the local flymen, of whom one 
made much complaint, grumbling of the hill and the hot 
weather, to Lady Sarah, maidless and in charge of her own 
luggage, arrived on a June day in response to Mr. and Mrs. 
Morton’s repeated invitation. 

It was a white house, long and low, with all its outward 
charms upon the garden front. Here, from the long terrace 
where orange-trees stood in square green tubs and clematis 
and rose branches trailed above the low stone parapet, it 
showed itself most pleasant and restful in aspect. Upon the 
white surface of the washed bricks the big sun-blinds and 
the bright green trellis-work that supported the flowering 
creepers looked gaily brilliant; open French windows offered 
glimpses into dark, cool rooms, to which one mounted by 
shallow stone steps; there were iron balconies upon the 
upper floor: the carved iron hidden here and there by the 
climbing jasmine and banksia roses; and at either end of 
the house a slightly advancing wing had been at some time 
added in stone, with a loggia, or very deep balcony, above 


The Ragged Messenger 


213 


the projecting hexagon of the lower room. In shadows 
thrown by the orange-trees upon the stone terrace, colored 
rags had been laid; and basket chairs and lounges with 
luxurious cushions invited one to loll and dream in the soft, 
warm air. It was certainly a complete change from Blooms- 
bury. 

Below the terrace the gardens spread themselves to right 
and left: stone walls and walls of foliage, yew and ilex; 
sentinel conifers guarding flowers sleeping in sunlit beds; 
stone steps leading one downward through banks of azaleas 
from level to level; arches of thuja that framed green vistas 
closed by sun-dial or statue, gleaming white before its leaf 
curtain; downward one wandered, by the shallow steps to 
the floating lilies, to listen to the fountain lazily pealing its 
tiny chimes, to watch the gold fish glide in the green cave 
of the gliding water — really, as the Pall Mall agents said, 
they were pretty gardens. 

Beneath the lowest wall, rhododendrons blazed like flower- 
fireworks in their brief June glory of purple and crimson; 
and beyond, across the unseen fence, one looked down to the 
sloping parkland, a chess-board of meadows, copses of hazel 
and beech, the roofs of the village, the gray church-tower, 
the map-like line of the railway: the tearing Northern pil- 
grims tamed into the insignificance of miniature toy trains, 
with streamers of cotton wool behind them as they seemed 
to creep out of sight in a cutting through a toy hillside. 
Among the white stems of the beech-trees the mauve rhodo- 
dendrons marked the lighter soil by their strong, close 
growth; and on the lower, richer ground the hedgerow elms 
carried the proud head that tells of easy circumstances. Over 
and through the elms, one could see the stretching roofs of 
the Children’s Home, glittering new and red in the sunlight. 

The Home stood on a long ridge of pasture close above the 
village, and faced due south. There were trees behind it; 
flowers and trees in front of it. In the long grass of the 
meadows there were cowslips, marigolds, wild narcissus; 


2 14 


The Ragged Messenger 

and human blue-bells — the maimed children in the blue 
smocks of their play-hours. They played in the long grass 
every day, or lay in the verandas, or were carried on their 
stretchers, or were wheeled in their perambulators; and, with 
upturned faces, they watched the swallows hawking high 
in the summer blue. On one day in each week they were 
brought — such of them as could be safely brought — to spend 
the long afternoon in Lord Talgarth’s gardens, to watch the 
fish, listen to the fountain, and dream that they had been 
carried to paradise. And on these afternoons, Mrs. Morton, 
robbed of the privacy proper to a garden, used to go for long 
drives in the shabby little pony-cart that had been hired from 
the Talgarth grocer. 

At the bottom of the garden Dr. Colbeck, in Panama hat 
and gray flannels, had come by special appointment to L,ady 
Sarah, in Leghorn straw and white muslin, to conduct her 
on her first visit to the Children’s Home. It was a close, 
still afternoon on the day following her arrival; and they 
walked slowly side by side down the tracks worn through 
the ripening grass, and talked of books and people and 
things. It was the first time that they had been alone to- 
gether for nearly four months. 

“ It is much larger than I expected,” said Lady Sarah. 

He was holding a gate open for her to pass through, and, 
all along the sunny southward ridge, the low, red-tiled build- 
ings stretched before them. 

“Yes, it is big enough for a beginning — for a makeshift, 
as our friend calls it. Over three hundred children already 
— our space all filled.” 

As they mounted the slope through the newly made par- 
terres — a gaudy carpet of bright blossoms — towards the 
endless verandas, he told her rapidly of Morton’s scheme, 
sketching its final scope; Talgarth’s land, the land of his 
two neighbors, to be bought; the children’s colony to be 
established in a walled territory, with college, farms, and 
humming workshops. In quiet business-like tones, as of one 


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The Ragged Messenger 

member of a public board speaking to another, he showed 
her how effectively, and yet with what rigid economy, the 
work so far had been done. He drew her attention to the 
engine sheds, boards and iron roof, and iron chimney with 
stays like those of a flagstaff — not a penny wasted in provid- 
ing the necessary shelter for engines, electric- light plant, and 
pumping gear; the two great necessities, good water, good 
light, in fullest measure at low r est cost. Kitchens, black and 
ugly without, boarded and tarred like soldiers’ kitchens in 
a camp, to be hidden when the cheap privet grew; but, 
within, clean and cool and sufficient. Coach-houses for the 
children’s small- wheeled carriages, with the padded tray or 
shelf of their rolling couch; the numberless deck-chairs in 
the red-tiled verandas, with the piles of red-cloth cushions 
standing on wooden dressers, an inexhaustible store ready 
for the nurses to draw from; bamboo blinds to hold the sun 
out and yet let the air come through; green matted curtains 
to pull up and down to keep the wind or rain away: every- 
thing that comfort could ask, all that prudence should give. 

“Yes, I thought you would be pleased,” said Dr. Colbeck, 
in his quiet, business-like voice, as of a public guardian 
speaking to a public inspector. ‘ ‘ I thought you would ap- 
prove of how he has done it. ’ * 

Inside the buildings, which for the most part were on one 
floor only, there were inclined planes, instead of flights of 
steps, leading from room to room and along the passages 
where the irregularities of the ground had forced a change 
of level — slopes that were not, perhaps, pleasant to walk 
upon, but convenient when you moved on wheels. Three 
big rooms, with windows like those in an artist’s studio or 
a tennis court, filled Lady Sarah, as Dr. Colbeck led her 
through them, with an emotion that changed, room by room. 
The first was a great nursery, stocked with a varied treasure 
of toys; beautiful things and costly things here, not un- 
worthy, some of them, to form the birthday present of a rich 
bachelor uncle to his favorite little nephew or niece — for the 


2l6 


The Ragged Messenger 

children to whom hitherto reels of cotton and a nailed box-lid 
had seemed the highest product of the toy maker’s art. The 
room made Lady Sarah smile in pleasure. The second was 
a big schoolroom with long tables and desks, chairs and 
stools of odd but cunningly devised shape for the small de- 
formed bodies to rest at peace while the small stunted minds 
drank at the hitherto hidden springs of knowledge. The 
room drove her smile away, but made her thrill with sym- 
pathy. The third big room was a gymnasium, or, rather, a 
torture chamber of kindly science — the rack, the boot, the 
little-ease — monstrous instruments of friendly torment, en- 
gines for inflicting daily pain, manipulated by loving hands 
that hoped to mend the bungled work of nature. Here were 
brave little sufferers hanging on shrivelled arms from polished 
bars; small, bent legs strained to lift the cruel weight that 
hung from threads of ankles; contracted chests almost burst- 
ing the frail, distorted cage of brittle bones in the struggle 
to keep elastic bands from springing out of trembling fingers; 
the disgraced of nature, so small, so weak, so brave, pausing 
in their pain to wipe the perspiration from their little brows, 
smiling at the doctor, and resuming their work. The room 
made Lady Sarah cry. 

“ Now I ’ll show you the dormitories,” said Dr. Colbeck 
with the same business-like manner; but suddenly preoccu- 
pied, and reading a letter that he had drawn from his pocket, 
until Lady Sarah had done blowing her nose and had put 
her lace handkerchief away. 

Some of the dormitories — for the least afflicted perhaps — 
were on an upper floor, approached by steps and slopes, with 
guard-rails, where the steps came, to aid the male nurses in 
carrying their burdens. They were large and airy rooms; a 
chair between each bed; colored prints on the match-board- 
ing of the walls; deep seats in the windows, cushioned in the 
bright red cloth; books on hanging shelves. Here and 
there upon the beds a child lay open-eyed and musing; tired 
by the sunlight and the air and brought back to rest, al- 


217 


The Ragged Messenger 

though the others still enjoyed themselves below. While 
Dr. Colbeck talked, first to a young doctor and then to a 
couple of nurses, Lady Sarah talked to a little boy, who lay 
on his back upon the bed next the door. The sunshine had 
given him a headache, a nurse told her — something wrong 
with the spine, but a dear little fellow! 

“You must n’t talk,” said Lady Sarah, “ if it makes your 
head ache.” 

“Like to talk,” he said. “ Like to talk to you. Never 
bin here before, ’ave you ? ” 

“No,” said Lady Sarah, “but I want to come often 
now.” 

“ I was de very fust to come ’ere,” he said proudly, turn- 
ing his head and looking at her with bright, intent eyes, 
“ de very fust of all. Done me good it has. Get up soon 
and go for a walk. ’E says so ’isself”; and he pointed to 
Dr. Colbeck talking to the matron, who had just appeared 
in the doorway of the far end of the room. “ ’E says so 
’isself.” 

Dr. Colbeck, returning, sat down for a minute in the 
vacant chair on the other side of the bed. The little chap 
welcomed him with a smiling face, and immediately taking 
his doctor’s hand in both of his, began to slide the big signet 
ring backwards and forwards on Colbeck’ s finger. 

“Don’t like ’er y ” he whispered, with a movement of his 
bright eyes slyly indicating the matron. “Don’t like ’er, 
not at all. Look dere! ” and he pointed towards the window. 
“ Naughty — very naughty girl.” 

Another tired child, a little girl, from a deep chair had 
slowly dragged herself up into the cushioned window-seat; 
and, half-sitting, half-crouching, watched the skimming swal- 
lows with a dog-like attention, swaying her small head to 
and fro in time to the flight of the birds. 

“ Come away from winder,” said the little fellow, reprov- 
ingly. “Should n’t do that — naughty! I done that at my 
’ome. Fell out o’ de window myself. Watching Syd and 


2 I 8 


The Ragged Messenger 

Mabel dress Mrs. Blake’s cat.” He was talking to Lady 
Sarah now. Dr. Colbeck had crossed over to the cushioned 
seat and was speaking to the little girl, who was quite safe, 
because the lower part of all the windows had been carefully 
barred. “ Mrs. Blake lives close to our ’ome. She ’s a lot 
o’ cats, has Mrs. Blake.” 

“ Where is your home, dear? ” asked Lady Sarah. 

“Notting Hill. Ever bin there? It ’s a big town, Not- 
ting Hill is. Bigger than what Talgarth is.” 

As Lady Sarah and Dr. Colbeck walked away from the 
children’s makeshift home, she asked him as her first ques- 
tion: 

‘ * That little boy we talked to — will he ever be able to 
walk ? ’ ’ 

“I hope so,” said Dr. Colbeck. “I think so,” he added 
firmly. ‘‘But he will have a long time to wait before that 
happens — ten or a dozen years — or even more. But he shall 
walk before we have done with him.” 

It was cooler now; the shadows of the well-fed elms 
stretched in a stealthy march across the fragrant meadows. 
Walking through the long grass Dr. Colbeck looked at his 
watch — a present, one of many such watches, with inscrip- 
tion and date, from the medical staff of a hospital. There 
was no need to hurry for the jog-trot London train. 

“We might cross the park and go back through the 
beech- woods. It ’s not far and it ’s very pretty — but I sup- 
pose we had better return by the gardens. You would be 
late for afternoon tea.” 

“ I would rather have the woods than the tea,” said Lady 
Sarah. 

They strolled along another path through the long grass, 
pausing in the shade of a tree to look up to the line of crim- 
son fire made by the rhododendrons, the green caps of the 
sentinel firs, and the white front of the house, showing above 
the garden verdure and seeming in the dazzling light to 
blink with the shaded eyelids formed by the bright sun- 


The Ragged Messenger 


219 


blinds. And, as they strolled and lingered, they talked of 
indifferent things — books and people and places. 

Beneath the branches of the beech-trees they walked upon 
gray moss through narrow aisles of cool gray shadow, sur- 
rounded by the slender white columns that supported the 
green roof of the wood — a broken roof showing patches of 
blue sky above the rents. Where the sunlight struck through 
to the floor, one saw a dancing, faintly colored rainbow, and 
the violets and late primroses suddenly springing from gray 
shadow to colored life. It was restful and church-like — L,ady 
Sarah thought — the true church-light, as though tempered 
and toned by old glass windows. 

In the heart of the wood a vista had been ruthlessly cut by 
its lord and master, to show off his mauve rhododendrons. 
The sawn trunks of the murdered beech- trees formed a 
ghastly avenue on either side; and, before it, his lordship 
had placed a comfortable seat to enable one comfortably to 
enjoy the work of his busy brain and his busy axe. Here, 
T ady Sarah and her escort sat and talked; without thought 
of the train, without care for the tea-kettle. 

“Dr. Colbeck,” said Tady Sarah, shyly asking another 
question. “ You know what you told me — that day — about 
your belief.” 

“ Or my want of belief? Yes.” 

“ I have thought about it ever since, and I feel I must ask 
you— you don’t mind what I say, do you ? ... In your 

work here — among these children — don’t you see anything , 
that, beginning in a doubt, might lead you some day to think 
differently ? ’ ’ 

“No,” said Dr. Colbeck, firmly— “ nothing— absolutely 
nothing.” 

“I can’t understand it. Knowing you as I do — I could 
not have guessed it.” 

Dr. Colbeck looked at her and smiled, with the grave, kind 
smile of a man speaking to a child; and, as he spoke, he took 
her ungloved hand in his, as a man takes a child’s hand, 


220 


The Ragged Messenger 

almost automatically, to show kindness, to show that he is 
not being bored, only amused — without a trace of the ten- 
derness a man shows for the woman he loves. But he held 
the hand very lightly, imperceptibly detaining it, as the 
caught bird that may go free when it pleases. 

“ I could hardly explain without shocking you.” 

“ Nothing you can say will shock me. I know you. I 
have seen you at your work an hour ago.” 

“ Then tell me why the work, as you call it — it is simply 
a way of filling idle hours — should make me look outside the 
hospital walls, or beyond the nearest hedgerows. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The children themselves — the look in their eyes — their 
trustfulness. Suffering here as they do, how could they 
smile and be so happy if this were the end — of everything ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But the whole little wood where we sit is a world of 
plunder and prey! In his heart of hearts, I believe your 
favorite poet thought as I do. He looked for no pilot across 
the bar. He knew there was to be no voyage when he sang 
of the open sea. Don’t let ’s talk about it. I only shock 
you.” 

“ You don’t shock me. You sadden me — but I want to 
hear.” 

‘ ‘ Why should I sadden you ? Why should you care what 
I think? . . . I ’ll tell you, if you bid me.” And his 

face grew serious and thoughtful. “No. I see all that you 
can see down there — better, more clearly, with the trained 
eye that must see all, or dishonor its training — and to me it 
all points one way — not your way. I see nothing outside 
the inexorable laws of nature. No ghost-work, no priest- 
work — no hidden hands, no guiding purpose. I see Morton’s 
noble thought partially realized. I see good work done by 
a good man. If, for one moment, I believed that a god’s 
hand had meddled in it, I should see a good man resolutely 
fighting a bad god,” and he smiled again as Lady Sarah 
drew her hand away. “There, I know I must shock 
you.” 


221 


The Ragged Messenger 

Lady Sarah had risen, and stood looking at him, tall and 
pale and beautiful. 

“You don’t shock me. You — you shake me.” 

In an instant the sick hunger of desire rose like a cloud to 
his brain; his strong hands shook in the almost intolerable 
longing for her love. Instinctively, he stretched out his 
arms in mute appeal — the dumb prayer of the suffering man 
for a respite from the love- pain wrought by the woman. She 
walked on — she had not even seen the gesture. Nothing 
that he could say would ever stir her heart to save him from 
his torment. He could stir her mind, he thought bitterly; 
with a few strong words could scare the child; make the 
child sorry she had insisted on discussing the good bogies 
and the bad bogies with a grown-up who was n’t afraid of 
either. And, as he walked by her side over the gray moss 
carpet, the shadows wrapped him round; substance faded 
suddenly to shadow; and he himself was a shadow walking 
in a wood of shadows. 

They entered the gardens by an iron gate that stood be- 
tween stone piers on a stone bridge across the sunk fence, 
and passed by straight paths, stone- edged circles, and rec- 
tangular lawns, towards the banks of azaleas. On their 
right there were the walls of kitchen gardens with a long 
border of flowers to mask them; a glitter of glass roofs; a 
water tower, screened about its ugly base by ilex and copper 
beeches; and at the end of a long wall the secluded rose 
garden. They found another seat among the roses, and 
stayed to rest before they climbed the flights of steps that 
would bring them to the terrace. 

“Dr. Colbeck, tell me one thing more.” She had been 
looking at the roses in silence, and now she turned and laid 
her hand upon his arm. ‘ * That other thought of yours — 
that you told me of — that has n’t made you unhappy-r-has 
it? You are forgetting it, and we may still be friends — real 
friends, as we used to be. I can’t say how much your 
friendship means to me.” 


222 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Does it ? I wonder.” 

Once with light fingers he had set himself to feel for her 
wound. Now it seemed that she was feeling for his. He 
thought, again rather bitterly, of how the gentlest women 
are able to inflict pain — the fumbling, over-cautious fingers 
bungling at the blood-stained bandage, slowly tearing the 
sticking lint, with a sigh of compassion clumsily tearing 
the wound itself till it gapes wide open. 

‘ ‘ I want to be able to think that you are happy — really 
happy in your work here. ’ ’ 

‘ * Do you know what that is ? ” He had drawn something 
from his pocket. “ Cocaine. A cocaine pencil. Most use- 
ful for producing local insensibility — for the eye, the eyelid 
— any trifling operation — you ought to have one, and apply 
it freely before you ask your questions. But the effect of the 
cocaine is local, fugitive. You know the real anaesthetics we 
use — ether and chloroform — for serious operations — when 
we have to defy pain for an hour — two hours or even more 
at a time ? They can do that for us — no pain. Well, that ’s 
my work. That ’s what it does for me, and I am thank- 
ful.” 

He had got up from the seat and was looking down at her. 
Then drawing himself together, and moving his shoulders 
as though shaking off an invisible cloak, he laughed. 

“ Come,” he said. “ I don’t know what you ’ll think of 
me. It was good of you to go there with me. It is good 
of you to care whether I ’m happy or not. I have been 
talking nonsense. Please forget it.” And, side by side, 
they began to mount the steps. 

“I am getting querulous,” he said, smiling. “Don’t 
mind it. We old fogeys get fractious as we grow older still. 
I have much to be thankful for, as Mrs. Klyard says of her- 
self. I have to thank Morton for finding me something to 
do— in a very dark hour. He is a wonderful man. He 
came to me in the hour of my life when I most needed help; 
and he gave me the help, while all the time he asked the 


223 


The Ragged Messenger 

help from me. And, to this day, I am in ignorance as to 
whether he knew what he was doing.” 

“ I think he must have known,” said L,ady Sarah. 

As they came out upon the stone terrace, Morton’s voice 
hailed them cheerily; and, looking up, they saw two dark 
figures above the parapet on the platform over the hexagonal 
bay of the big room at the end of the house. Mr. Morton 
and Mr. Bowman had been working on the broad platform 
in the open air. 

“Is that Mr. Morton’s room up there?” asked Dady 
Sarah. 

“No, I believe they are Walter Bowman’s rooms — the 
best rooms in the house Mr. Bigland told me. A queer old 
fish, Mr. Bigland! I think he is rather jealous of Master 
Walter — or of anybody else who comes between him and his 
leader. I have missed two trains, and I think I shall lose a 
third.” 

And Dr. Colbeck hurried away down the other steps that 
led to the station and the church path. 


XX 

I T had suited Lord Talgarth’s convenience to leave behind 
him a few of his indoor servants, and no arrangement 
could have been more convenient for his tenants. The Tal- 
garth nucleus consisted of three or four housemaids under 
an elderly housemaid-housekeeper, a faithful and well-tried 
watch-dog, capable of guarding her own people’s interests 
while submitting to serve the aliens; and a brilliant kitchen- 
maid, a well-grown young lady of penetrating eye and skilful 
hand, who had long since mastered all the arts and mysteries 
of the overpaid Talgarth cook, and whose frank boast it was 
that she knew all that lady knew and a bit over. Into this 
domestic cadre , Mr. Parrott, coming from London to take 
over supreme command, was able to put his three little maids 
with the happiest results and on the best military principles 
— the still raw recruit side by side with the practised veteran. 
Flushed with his recent successes he felt easy in his mind 
within an hour of the detraining of his small force; modestly 
confident that he could now run the large country establish- 
ment as smoothly and as well as he had controlled his big 
London house. It had been necessary to leave his cook, 
odd man, and a maid or so behind him at his base in 
Bedford Square. Somebody would be required there to 
cook a joint and make the beds for humble visitors; or to 
wait upon the master when the work called him to London,’ 
as it did continually, and when, as happened now and 
then, he was kept by it too late to return to Talgarth by 
the last train. But now all was well; Mr. Parrott was 


224 


225 


The Ragged Messenger 

satisfied with the way in which matters had accommodated 
themselves. 

With a household so adequately contrived, Mrs. Morton 
found the cares of housekeeping even less onerous than 
hitherto. By the master’s orders, or in accordance with 
some chart of instructions drawn out with the assistance of 
his secretary, the extreme rigor of economy had been abated. 
Expense within wider limits was to run unchecked, and it 
was to be understood that the mistress was not to be worried 
about anything. The mistress had come here to rest; all 
were to grasp that fact. Bills and accounts and tradesmen’s 
books were to pass direct to the secretarial department. But 
the mistress was to be consulted; was to be asked to state 
briefly and exactly what she required; and effect was to be 
given to any reasonable wish with silent alacrity. The case 
of the mistress wishing for the unattainable was also pro- 
vided for. The servant, staggered and put out of counte- 
nance by an impossible order, should ask no questions, but 
repair to the secretary’s office for the time being — on the big 
balcony, in the morning- room, under the orange-trees — and 
report progress. Surrounded by such liberal care and so 
much thoughtful consideration, something of Mrs. Morton’s 
money grievance seemed to have been removed, and life 
made very easy for her. A few words to be languidly spoken 
of a morning, and then freedom for the long day. No more 
irksome duties — nothing to do but loll and bask and dream. 
She had but to summon her cook and languidly sketch the 
outlines of a programme. 

“Please let there be as good a dinner as possible on 
Friday. There is a man coming who, I believe, is fond of 
food.” 

“Yes, ma’am. I ’ll do my very best.” 

Or, summoning the old housemaid: 

“ Please get another room ready. A gentleman is coming 
to stay — to-morrow, I believe.” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

*5 


226 


The Ragged Messenger 

“A nice room. One at the billiard- room end — with the 
pretty view towards the station. ’ ’ 

“Yes, ma’am. I ’ll have one of those made ready. We 
don’t, as a rule, use them except when the house is full. 
They ’re so far for the gentleman to come to the dining- 
room.” 

“ Yes, but I wish this gentleman to enjoy the view.” 

“Quite so, ma’am. I only mentioned it, because her 
ladyship mostly favors the view from this end like. Yes, 
ma’am, I ’ll see to it at once.” 

And the old housemaid hurried away to obey orders, not 
without a qualm of conscience. She had talked too much; 
and she trembled lest any one should accuse her of having 
worried the mistress. 

Thus, on these easy lines, life at Talgarth in the warm 
June weather glided easily, smoothly, day by day, like the 
sun-warmed water gliding in the sunlight between the stone 
walls of the Talgarth garden. 

Perhaps, in spite of those reiterated requests for Tady 
Sarah’s company, Mrs. Morton was not a very attentive 
hostess to the guest beneath her roof. She seemed to rely 
on Tady Sarah’s power to amuse herself, and rather shirked 
the hostess’s usual task of mapping out the hours and strug- 
gling to fill them with entertainment. She even seemed to 
shirk her guest’s companionship — the friendly sittings in 
low chairs face to face in friendly communion, when the 
needle stops or the book is laid down for a snatch of friendly 
talk : The exchange of ideas as they rise to the happy mind, 
without effort or thought of making conversation, and then 
the long, friendly silence again. 

L,ady Sarah, never at a loss to entertain herself, was in no 
need of picnics, excursions, or distant visitings to make the 
long days pass swiftly. She and her host had very much to 
talk about — an absolutely inexhaustible ground of discussion 
to rove over and leave with regret that they had been only 
able to penetrate such a very little way. When they sat 


227 


The Ragged Messenger 

talking of an evening in the pretty morning-room, or on the 
dark terrace, Morton’s low, deep voice was like a bell rung 
by a hand that could never tire — a bell that drowned the 
tinkle of the clocks, and was ringing still when the clocks 
struck midnight and Mr. Bigland, going round closing 
shutters and clanking with locks and bolts, came to put the 
house to sleep for the night. Then there was the Children’s 
Home, to which Lady Sarah went morning and afternoon, 
and where the time flew also, as she sat by a bedside reading 
aloud in the gentle, musical tones which even the children 
with the sun-headaches now craved for, or listened to a 
prattling child while she watched Dr. Colbeck passing to 
and fro in the kindly anaesthesia of his daily task. There 
was all that Lady Sarah needed to make the days glide 
smoothly. But, unlike Mrs. Morton, she seemed to have a 
strong sense of the duties of guest and host. She sought the 
company of her hostess more and more; offered herself freely 
as sharer of woodland strolls or garden loungings; and pro- 
posed to turn her back on all the little visitors, if she might 
have a seat in the shabby pony carriage on the afternoon that 
the Home grounds were rendered untenantable to Mrs. 
Morton. 

Mrs. Morton would not suffer this sacrifice of Lady Sarah’s 
inclinations. With very cold courtesy, Mrs. Morton ex- 
plained that to-day she hardly knew where she was going — 
perhaps only to the village. If she found the roads hot and 
dusty she would go no farther; if the drive did not make her 
head ache, she might prolong it; but she would prefer to 
feel free to stay out or come home without spoiling another 
person’s afternoon. In fact, she did not want Lady Sarah; 
she wanted to be alone. 

Lady Sarah flushed faintly. 

“I think,” she said thoughtfully, “I won’t stay here as 
long as you were good enough to ask me, — I think I will go 
back to-morrow, please.” 

Mrs. Morton’s cold manner changed in an instant. With 


228 


The Ragged Messenger 

eager, almost frightened voice she begged Lady Sarah to 
stay, to stay much longer than had first been suggested, to 
stay as long as might be possible. It seemed that she was 
really frightened by the thought that she had been rude and 
had offended her guest. But Mrs. Morton presented so many 
changes of manner, was so rapid in her transitions from her 
habitual coldness to sudden genial warmth, that Lady Sarah 
remained very thoughtful. 

‘ ‘ Why do you ask me to stay ? ’ ’ she said hesitatingly, al- 
most sadly. “You don’t really want me.” 

“But I do want you,” said Mrs. Morton. “Please say 
that you are not angry, that you ’ll stay.” 

‘ ‘ Of what use is my presence ? ’ ’ 

“ The greatest use — you amuse my husband — you ” 

Lady Sarah flushed again at the word ‘ ‘ amuse. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I did not come to be with Mr. Morton. I came to be 
with you — because you said it would be a kindness to you.” 

“And so it is — a great kindness. I am grateful. You 
will stay, won’t you ? ” 

“Yes,” said Lady Sarah, after another thoughtful pause. 
“I want to stay if you will let me — if you don’t make it 
impossible for me.” 

“ Thank you,” and immediately the eager warmth began 
slowly to cool. “ You must n’t be offended by anything I 
say. I have dreadful headaches. I have one now. By the 
bye, your father is coming here one day to dine. You won’t 
let him make you change your mind. He is sure to ask you 
to go back soon. In fact, I know he will ask you. He said 
so.” 

The man who had been spoken of as liking a good dinner 
was the Right Honorable the Karl of Patrington. 

Not for the first time in his career his lordship had on re- 
flection decided to swallow his resentment; and for the mo- 
ment at least to affect that the swallowing had produced no 
indigestion. Should it cause him any uncomfortable sensa- 
tions later he could of course plainly state what he was suffer- 


229 


The Ragged Messenger 

ing from. It had occurred to him, driving in his cab along 
the Embankment, that knowing as he did the colossal ec- 
centricity of Mr. Morton it was perhaps foolish to judge his 
reprehensible conduct by any ordinary standards. Eord 
Patrington, as he told himself, was not a man likely to brook 
an affront from any one — be he who he might — who knew 
what he was about, who meant to be offensive. But who 
could treat this fellow seriously; an eccentric with a tongue 
governed by the wildest phantoms, the most preposterous 
familiar spirits, rather than by commonplace mental direc- 
tion ? Great allowances should be made on this count. The 
man too had once put him under a very great obligation. 
Great allowances on that count also. A man of this char- 
acter nearly always speaks without thinking — says one 
thing one minute; another, the next. Eord Patrington, 
bumping in his cab over the uneven macadam, came to the 
definite conclusion that a rebuff from such a quarter was not, 
strictly speaking, a rebuff at all; and considering the subject 
of his necessities, as the cab ran pleasantly upon the wood 
pavement, owned himself wrong, and with candor determined 
to try his luck again. 

But such reflections only concerned Patrington the city 
man of devious enterprise and unrewarded endeavor, the 
fatally busy noble of narrowing means but unabated energy : 
they did not touch Patrington the parent. As the father of 
Eady Sarah, he had much cause for painful thought. How 
long was this sort of thing to go on ? It was terrible and in- 
credible, but his own child continued to set him at defiance. 
Pie roundly accused Eady Tollhurst of aiding and abetting 
her, egging her on instead of stopping her. By Eady Toll- 
hurst’s over- affection ate patronage of Mrs. Morton, she had 
kept the door open to Eady Sarah’s insane progress. All 
about him were broken reeds! Eady Tollhurst snapped, Eady 
Emily broken for the last ten years, Colbeck cracked and 
shivered in an hour — all tacitly aiding and abetting. Yet 
could he in reason permit the thing to go on ? Could he 


230 


The Ragged Messenger 

stand by tamely and watch his daughter — the daughter who 
ought to have made the match of the season six seasons ago 
at the very least — change before his eyes into a sort of glori- 
fied salvation army nurse or visitor ? Surely he did well to 
rage at the thought? The thing was being talked about; 
people were commiserating, pitying him; in one of his clubs 
— -just inside the blue cloth door of the Carlton, all the time 
he was hanging up his hat in the hall, and half-way up the 
staircase — two men whom he scarcely knew and did not 
want to know, had tackled him about it and expressed an 
impudent, obstreperous concern. As a father also, L,ord 
Patrington made up his mind. Unless he could persuade 
himself that the influence of these Mortons would in the 
long run prove innocent, he must once for all protest and 
make a final effort to get her away from it. Without such a 
protest he would not permit his child to remain the guest of 
a woman unknown, mysterious, impossible, and of a man 
who continued to talk as Morton had talked in the recess of 
the window in Bedford Square. 

Diplomatically reopening relations, lightly, easily, with an 
assumption that he had no reason to suppose that he would 
not be welcome, Ford Patrington wrote to Mrs. Morton and 
suggested that he would be glad to come down to Talgarth 
on Friday for a late tea and an early dinner. 

“ I want to see the great Mr. Morton,” his lordship wrote 
affably; “I want to see his charming wife, and I want to see 
my neglectful daughter. I really cannot spare you Sarah at 
this time of year, and freely confess I begin to pine for her 
in Park Dane. Indeed her absence is causing me consider- 
able uneasiness.” 

The gentleman who was to enjoy the view towards the 
station was Mr. Griffiths. 

Arriving in the afternoon, Mr. Griffiths found the house 
deserted. Mr. Morton was in London; Mrs. Morton was out 
driving; L,ady Sarah w r as in the lower gardens with the chil- 
dren, whose voices floated upwards faint and shrill; Mr. 


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231 


Bowman was out; Mr. Bigland was probably at home, but 
was not apparent ; Mr. Parrott had gone to the village 
on business. The elderly housemaid did the honors in the 
absence of her own people and the alien people, and found 
the new visitor a very pleasant gentleman indeed, with a 
friendliness and modesty which to her mind by no means 
detracted from his dignity. Real gentlemen were always 
pleasant-spoken! Years ago, when she was much younger, 
she had enjoyed many a pleasant chat with smiling and 
frolicsome young gentlemen of quite exalted rank, on those 
very stairs, when the house was overflowing for the winter 
balls and splendid young bloods were perforce banished to 
the bachelor quarters at the billiard-room end of the house. 

“ That was in the old lord’s time,” she told Mr. Griffiths; 
“her ladyship don’t have the same company as in the old 
lord’s time.” 

She showed Mr. Griffiths his room rather apologetically; 
but Mr. Griffiths was well content with it. He explained 
that in truth he was not “ company ” as she understood the 
word. He belonged to a humbler world than that from 
which the brave and the beautiful are gathered by ladies of 
quality to pirouette at hunt and county balls. He was, in a 
sense, a servant of Mr. Morton — summoned here to do his 
work, not to add a glitter to the dinner table. Had he been 
introduced to the steward’s room, he would have taken his 
place there very contentedly. But that was not the way Mr. 
Morton did things. Mr. Morton was a wonderfully kind and 
condescending gentleman, as probably she had observed for 
herself. 

‘ ‘ Oh, he is, sir. And a very grand gentleman, sir — a kind 
smile he has, sir, I am sure for all — but not a gentleman one 
would take a liberty with, sir.” 

“Ah. But you would n’t take a liberty with anybody,” 
and Mr. Griffiths smiled pleasantly. 

The old housemaid laughed. 

“No, sir — not nowadays. I hope I know my place. I 


2 3 2 


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was giddy enough once, I daresay,” and she spoke perhaps 
with regret, “ like my girls are now. But it ’s a fact, sir, 
they are afraid of Mr. Morton. If they do but see him com- 
ing they just bolt, sir— scared like. Not his own girls, you 
understand, but my girls, sir. They say he ’s different from 
any gentleman they ’ve ever seen; and it ’s a fact, sir, 
they ’ll drop broom, or down with tray just anywhere, rather 
than face him.” 

In the absence of his hosts, Mr. Griffiths seemed to enjoy 
being shown round the empty house by the friendly watch- 
dog of the lordly owners. 

“The billiard-room, sir.” 

And Mr. Griffiths peeped into the dark neglected room; 
smelling of dust and india-rubber, vault-like and uncomfort- 
able, with the huge table like a sarcophagus covered by a 
pall of white mackintosh. 

“Ah,” said Mr. Griffiths, “ I used to be rather a dab at 
billiards myself — once upon a time.” 

“ Did you, sir? ” said the old housemaid, sympathetically. 
“The old lord used to like his game of billiards. I ’ve 
heard the balls half through the night, I have — when I was 
a girl. No one comes here now,” and she gave a little sigh 
of regret— for the silent balls, or her vanished youth. 

As they worked their way back to the heart of the house, 
past glass doors leading to the offices, mahogany doors with 
glass panels opening into snug parlors or storerooms, she told 
him all about the noble Talgarth family. She knew all that 
there was to be known. The old lord put in the glass doors 
all over the house. He was fond of glass; had rebuilt all the 
hothouses, and was going to build a glass winter- garden 
when his fatal illness stopped him. He was a scientific 
nobleman, and had once given himself a nasty fall on the 
terrace through watching the stars and walking backwards 
at the same time. A very good friend to the poor was the 
old lord, and so was her late ladyship. The young lord, he 
was a very clever nobleman too; but she feared he found 


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233 


Talgarth dull. He was a traveller, fond of his shooting in 
foreign parts — Africa, India, and such out-of-the-way places; 
fond of his yacht, too — “for the artick sailing, sir.” 

She had heard of its being said that the young lord meant 
to find the North Pole one of these fine days. It was plain 
that between the old lord and the young lord the ruling lord 
was somewhat eclipsed, a lord who shed anything but a daz- 
zling lustre, if not quite a nonentity. All that she had to 
say of the reigning prince was that he had ridded the realm 
of some tottering old subjects, the elms at the bottom of the 
park, and checked the pushing ways of the younger genera- 
tion by clearing some of the beech copses. 

“ This, sir, is the room which your family, as I may say, 
mostly seems to use. We call it the morning-room.” 

Mr. Griffiths considered it a most tasteful apartment, and 
gratified his guide by admiration of the pastel portraits — 
Lady Adelaide very blue of eye and blonde of hair, Lady 
Sophia as roughly striking a brunette as red and brown chalk 
could make her; and the old lord himself, looking somewhat 
ogreish as he nursed a scientific instrument and glared at the 
spectator. He also admired the miniatures in some glass- 
topped tables, the Chelsea and Lowestoft china behind the 
lattice-work of the Sheraton cabinets, the delicate green of 
the silk hangings, and the flower-laden chintz of the long 
window curtains; but, above all, he admired the orange-trees 
seen through the centre window from which the stone steps 
led to the stone terrace. He noticed, on the large table in 
the middle of the room, conspicuous evidence of the alien 
occupation : the litter of papers, pamphlets, and bulging 
envelopes that followed Mr. Morton wherever he went, to- 
gether with some of the flat baskets and trays peculiar to the 
work. 

“That,” said the housemaid, pointing to one of the lordly 
mahogany doors, ‘ ‘ is your lady’s room. It was prepared for 
her as an invalid like, I suppose.” 

As she spoke, old Mr. Bigland came up the steps from the 


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terrace. He had been wandering rather disconsolately about 
the garden, and he seemed glad to welcome Mr. Griffiths. 
He gave him no sour looks to-day, but chuckled amicably as 
he shook hands. 

“vShowing the house to the gentleman,” said the house- 
maid, explaining her presence. “Yes, sir, that’s Mrs. 
Morton’s room. It came as a bit of a surprise to us , of 
course, but it ’s Mr. Morton’s house now. But it did seem 
odd to us, being her ladyship’s boudoir.” 

“It ’s wrong,” cried old Mr. Bigland noisily and excit- 
edly, “it ’s wickedly wrong.” 

“What ’s wrong?” asked Mr. Griffiths. 

“ This. Look!” and Mr. Bigland pushed open the ma- 
hogany door, disclosing a little lobby and another door be- 
yond. “Look, china and books. Velvet carpet in the 
lobby even. The countess’s boudoir — the best room in the 
house — turned into her bedroom.” 

“ It did seem odd to us ,” said the old housemaid. 

“Look! ” cried Bigland. “The inner door ’s ajar. You 
can see the satin and the gold. Fit for a queen. Go in and 
see for yourself. . . . No?” and he shut the mahogany 

door violently. “ And my master’s room ? Have you seen 
that?" and he pointed upwards. “ A servant’s room — iron 
bed. No gold — no satin. It ’s very wrong! ” 

“Bosh,” said Mr. Griffiths, smiling at the old man’s ex- 
citement. “ If Mr. Morton likes ” 

“He doesn’t know. He doesn’t feel. — Look here. 
More! Young Bowman ” 

‘ ‘ Well. What about Bowman ? ’ ’ 

“He has turned his hand from the plough,” said Mr. 
Bigland, impressively. “Faint-hearted. Faint-hearted. 
Why should he have the rooms of a king ? ’ ’ 

“Why not?” 

“ Two splendid rooms — fit for a king — state rooms. Bed- 
room behind, sitting-room in front — with a view over the park 
and over the garden — over the roof of the world almost.” 


235 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Well. Why not ? The house is big enough.” 

“ Too big,” said Mr. Bigland. “I’d like to pull it down. 
I wish it never had been built.” 

The housemaid looked horror-stricken by this terrible 
sentiment. 

“ Show him the rooms,” said Mr. Bigland. “ L,et him see 
for himself. Show him everything. I can’t stop. I must 
get out into the air again,” and waving his hand, he hurried 
down the steps to the terrace. 

“ Mr. Bigland is an odd gentleman, to be sure,” said the 
old housemaid, indignantly. “I never heard such talk.” 

Mr. Griffiths continued his tour of inspection, and finally 
reached the suite appropriated to the use of the secretary. It 
was at the end of, and isolated from, the rest of the house, 
above the big room with the hexagon projection — in which 
the housemaid said a string band used to sit in the old days 
when the company danced of an evening after dinner. A 
short flight of stairs brought one to Mr. Bowman’s spacious 
sitting-room, through which one passed to the fairly large 
bedroom behind. The front room was certainly attractive; 
high and large and airy, with big sofas and sleepy-looking 
chairs, bright red walls and dull gold carpets, pretty water- 
color drawings, Oriental vases on ebony stands, cabinets 
with blue and white china; and, as an annex to the room, 
the broad platform or balcony where one could sit beneath 
the yellow awning and bask in the summer beauty of the 
smiling landscape. These were the rooms occupied by the 
young lord in his youth, the rooms he still occupied on his 
too rare visits. 

“All very nice indeed,” said Mr. Griffiths, admiring 
everything — the sketches, the furniture, the view, “and 
this ” — glancing at the basket chair and table on the balcony 
— “ is where Mr. Bowman works all day ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said the housemaid, “ except when he ’s out 
in the garden with your lady. He does n’t work such hours 
as Mr. Morton does.” 


XXI 


M R. PARROTT had just lit the lamps in the morning- 
room. In the light thrown from the room the yellow 
fruit and polished leaves of the orange-trees looked like an 
artificial decoration of glittering metal and colored paper. 
But beyond the lamplight, the gray stone and the gray foli- 
age were real and very beautiful as they rose from the masses 
of black shadow — the velvet folds of darkness trailing from 
the blue robes of the cloudless summer night; and through 
all the widely opened windows of the house there floated a 
perfumed silence, broken only by a whisper of the flowers 
stirring imperceptibly in their beds, watched by the motion- 
less tree-sentinels. 

Mr. Parrott, moderating the green-shaded lamp upon the 
littered writing-table, looked up with blinking eyes and did 
not for a few moments see the matron of the Home standing 
in the doorway from the corridor. 

She had left the children to their tired sleep after the 
long joy of the glorious June day. But they, too, stirred 
and talked in their sleep, as though oppressed by the 
sadness that forms a part in all transcendent beauty. Tying 
in the hushed fragrance of the warm night they tossed 
and turned. Sensitive instruments, as those afflicted in 
body often are, some of them seemed in their dreams to 
be struggling to record the waves of pleasure as they 
rolled too fast, until, blurring, they passed into waves of 
pain; and, here and there, a child woke with a sob and 
began to clamor in the darkness for its home among the 

236 


The Ragged Messenger 237 

slums — for rest from emotion, a relief from this new-found 
happiness. 

“ Come in, Mrs. Elyard. They ’ve done dinner. They 
won’t be long before they ’re out.” 

“ I can wait, Mr. Parrott. You have company, I think ? ” 

“Only Lady Sarah’s pa and Dr. Colbeck, and they catches 
the nine fifty -five.” 

“ Is Mr. Griffiths dining? ” 

“ Yes — and Mr. Bowman.” 

“ Oh — of course,” said Mrs. Elyard, walking across to the 
window. 

“ All well at the Home, Mrs. Elyard ? ” 

“ Yes, thank you, Mr. Parrott. Working like a clock.” 

“ Ah. You ’ve wound the clock up fine.” 

“ I do my best. Always glad to see you there, Mr. Par- 
rott, for a chat and a look round.” 

“ Thank you,” said Mr. Parrott. 

“Yes, I do my best. I have come to get my checks 
signed, ready against to-morrow morning, but there ’s no 
hurry. I ’ll wait in the garden.” Mrs. Elyard was going 
down the steps but she stopped, and turned. “ You have n’t 
observed anything further, Mr. Parrott ? ’ ’ 

“ No, ma’am.” Mr. Parrott looked rather troubled. 
“ And what I let fall the other day was n’t meant.” 

“No, Mr. Parrott, I quite understand.” 

“ Because you know I would n’t ” 

“ Hush — tell your master I am here when I am wanted.” 

The voices of the approaching gentlemen could be heard, 
and Mrs. Elyard modestly retired into the garden to keep out 
of the way of the guests until she might conveniently be 
given audience, while Mr. Parrott went to get the coffee and 
take it out to the ladies on the terrace. 

Lord Patrington, coming along the corridor with Dr. Col- 
beck, paused to light another cigar. 

“ Well, at any rate this is better than Bedford Square.” 

“ Yes, it ’s a pretty house,” said Colbeck, carelessly. 


238 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ And an excellent dinner. It ’s evident that Talgarth 
lets his cook with his furniture. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t think our host attaches more importance to one 
than the other.” 

“Good lord, no,” said Lord Patrington, irritably. He 
had dined well, but the good dinner had by no means re- 
moved certain grounds for serious resentment. “And to 
think,” he said, as they passed through the morning-room, 
“ that this hare-brained creature could buy up men like Tal- 
garth — houses and lands — stock and lot — without even feel- 
ing that he had made a big investment.” 

“ But the security does n’t tempt him.” 

“No security seems to tempt him,” said Lord Patrington, 
shrugging his shoulders, contemptuously. “ I must and will 
speak to Sarah before we go. Have you ever thought, Col- 
beck, since that day — you remember — that Sarah might after 
all have held this power if — if ’ ’ 

“ If you had guessed the power was there,” said Colbeck, 
bitterly. 

Lord Patrington turned with great irritation. 

“She might have had a sobering influence. She might 
have controlled him, guided, directed. Who knows ? Oh, 
ah, er ” — Mr. Griffiths had come into the room — “ er, when 
does this train of ours go, Mr. Griffiths? ” 

“ Nine fifty-five. The cart is ordered.” 

“ The cart ! ” said Lord Patrington, with disgust. “ Then 
the stable does n’ t go with the furniture. I suppose Morton 
would consider a brougham sinful luxury.” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Griffiths, deprecatingly, “ unnecessary, 
perhaps. ’ ’ 

“Don’t let us miss our train, Mr. Griffiths,” said Colbeck, 
following his lordship down the steps. ‘ ‘ I should never 
hear the last of it.” 

Outside on the terrace the coffee had been brought to one 
of the wicker tables, and Lady Sarah, Mr. Bowman, and the 
hostess were sitting in the deep, cushioned chairs. 


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239 


“ What a stifling evening,” said Mrs. Morton. “I hope 
it is going to rain.” 

“ I hope it isn’t,” said Lord Patrington, “before we get 
to the station. We are to go in — er — an open carriage! 
. . . Sarah ! ’ ’ and he waved his cigar in the direction of 

the lamp-lit rooms. 

But Lady Sarah did not seem to understand this invitation 
to a private parental interview. She did not rise from the low 
chair, but continued to sip her coffee and to talk to Mr. 
Bowman. 

Morton, with Mr. Bigland, was walking backwards and for- 
wards from end to end of the long terrace, and, as they came 
by, Colbeck joined them and took his host’s arm. 

‘ ‘ Then when I see the Bishop, Morton, I am to tell him 
it ’s no surrender.” 

“Tell him,” said Morton, wearily, “that I am not con- 
tumacious. But that he is wrong.” 

“ Ah. I wish his lordship had n’t chosen me for his am- 
bassador. ’ ’ 

“You can tell him that I preach in the open air here in 
the park whenever it is possible. No license is needed for 
that. I have used the church in bad weather as a convenient 
shelter — as I would any barn, or shed, if it were more con- 
venient. I don’t mind where I utter the words that should 
heal and soothe.” 

“I act as his clerk,” said Mr. Bigland, rubbing his hands 
together, “ and give out the hymns.” 

“Well,” said Colbeck, “of course I don’t know. I am 
completely — out of touch; but, as far as I may venture to 
judge, it really seems that your quarrel with the Church 
might so easily be settled.” 

“ I have no quarrel with the Church.” 

“ No — but the Bishop says ” 

“I quarrel with the Judges sometimes — never with the 
Law. The Church is the Court of God’s Law — of the Sacra- 
ments, of His commands to His creatures. The Church is 


240 The Ragged Messenger 

not the Pope or the Archbishop, though neither of them like 
to own it.” 

“ But, after all, if they help to keep the law.” 

“ God’s laws are so easy to keep. It is only men’s that 
are difficult.” 

“Ah, well. I had to discharge my mission. He asked 
me as a faithful friend of yours. But of course you know 
best.” 

“Yes,” said Morton, absently. “I know best — in this. 
I know best in this.” 

As they returned towards the strip of stone pavement lit 
by the lamps from the morning-room, Lord Patrington was 
going up the steps with his daughter. He called to Mr. 
Griffiths, who was standing by the parapet smoking his 
cigarette in solitude, and urged him to remember the neces- 
sity of catching the train. Colbeck paused in the lamplight 
to look at his watch, and, glancing through the window, saw 
Lady Sarah, tall and stately and gracious, listening in silence 
to her father’s low- voiced harangue. 

“ I am sorry,” he said, putting away his watch, “ that my 
young friend Dr. Farley has failed to present himself. I 
wanted to have the pleasure of showing him the splendid 
chance you have given us. ’ ’ 

“Then you think, sir,” said Mr. Griffiths, “that Dr. 
Farley won’t come now? ” 

“ No. He has evidently been detained in town. But he 
won’t go back to Liverpool without seeing it.” 

Mr. Bigland wandered away, and Mr. Griffiths took his 
place as they strolled on. 

“ Farley wants to see your work, Morton,” said Colbeck, 
“and he wants to see you.” 

“ So that the work is good never mind the workmen.” 

“ But you will like Dr. Farley, sir,” said Griffiths. 

“Shall I?” 

“Yes, I ’ll answer for it that you do.” 

“ How ’s that? ” said Colbeck. “ Do you know him ? ” 


The Ragged Messenger 


241 


“ Oh, yes. The Liverpool doctor who attended the late 
Mr. Vavasour was one of my first points in a little investiga- 
tion that Mr. Morton put into my hands.” 

“ Yes. Mr. Morton told me. But you had no success? ” 

“ No. I confess that I have failed.” 

Morton, looking far away across the gray tree-tops, had 
not seemed to be listening; but now he stopped abruptly, 
and spoke with eager interest. 

“Is it not horrible to think of, Colbeck — that wretched 
woman cheated by death of all she had suffered for — drifted 
into the darkness — alone and friendless — beyond my reach ? 
I can never forgive myself for our failure.” 

“Now that,” said Mr. Griffiths, “ is why I introduced the 
subject. Don’t you agree with me, Dr. Colbeck, that he is 
wrong ? ’ ’ 

“Wrong! How?” 

“ Wrong to distress himself with such thoughts. All that 
could be done has been done. He has employed a really 
skilful detective to prosecute the search, ’ ’ 

“ And the skilful investigator is baffled ? ” 

“But w T e must go on trying,” said Morton. 

“What’s the good? I am like a man who has been 
groping down a dark passage and is stopped by a door which 
he can’t open. Take my humble advice and leave it alone.” 

“ I can never do that.” 

“Wait then. You have done all you could. Am I not 
right, Dr. Colbeck?” 

“ Yes,” said Colbeck, “ I think you are. I don’t see what 
else you can do, if you have exhausted all the means at your 
disposal.” 

“ Exactly. That ’s what I say. We have done so. Then 
wait. At any moment, chance may give us the key to the 
door. Then, let ’s wait in patience. If any fresh materials 
turn up, we can go on.” 

“ If they do,” said Morton, “you promise to go on ? ” 

“ Yes. If you order me to.” 

16 


242 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ If I order you! Why not ? Why not ? ” 

As they came back to the cushioned chairs where Mr. 
Bowman and Mrs. Morton were sitting, she rose and walked 
across to the steps. 

“ Perhaps, Mrs. Morton,” said Colbeck, “ I had better say 
good-bye.” 

“ I am only going for a wrap. I ’ll be back in a moment.” 

“ Colbeck, did you see? ” said Morton in a low voice. 

“What?” 

Mr. Griffiths had strolled on. Morton looked round to see 
that no one was within hearing. 

“ How she passed me by — without a smile or a word. Did 
you speak to her to-day ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes. I told her that you were anxious — needlessly anx- 
ious — about her health ; and that you suffered — from her 
lack of sympathy.” 

“ Yes, yes. What did she say ? ” 

“Well. She still seems to think ” 

“That I am wrong. I knew you could do no good.” 

“ Oh, I don’t admit that; only ” 

“ And, Colbeck, she is so pale and fragile. Every day I 
look for the flush of health that comes so easily to our poor 
convalescents, but it does n’t come here.” 

Mrs. Morton was returning, and Morton moved away, 
with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes on the 
stone pavement. 

Dr. Colbeck helped to wrap the shawl about Mrs. Morton’s 
shoulders. 

‘ ‘ That ’s right. Beware of chills. The temperature some- 
times drops rapidly after a day like this has been.” 

“ Not to-night. There ’s not a breath of air.” 

“And — Mrs Morton — try to forgive me for what I said 
this afternoon.” 

“There was nothing to forgive,” and she looked away— 
towards the shadows beneath the orange-trees where Mr. 
Bowman stood waiting for her. 


The Ragged Messenger 


243 


“Then show it by acting on my advice,” and Colbeck 
offered his hand. 

“ Good-bye.” 

Tady Sarah had come to the top of the steps. 

“ Mrs. Morton — I ’ll come with you, if I may.” 

“ Oh, by all means,” said Mrs. Morton very coldly, and 
without looking round she walked on. 

But Tady Sarah was not permitted to follow her hostess. 

“Stay,” said Ford Patrington, and, taking her hand, he 
drew her back into the room and called loudly to Mr. 
Griffiths. 

“Mr. Griffiths, where have you got to? Oh, er — Mr. 
Griffiths, do me the great kindness of asking for my hat and 
coat.” 

Obedient to the call, Mr. Griffiths had stepped from the 
shadows into the lamplight. 

“ Certainly. But you ’ve loads of time.” 

‘ ‘ I shall walk on to the station and let the cart overtake 
me.” 

Then in low-voiced anger his lordship made his final 
protest. 

“ For the last time, Sarah, I ask you to leave these 
people. ’ ’ 

“ I am afraid I can’t do so.” 

“ Your Aunt Kate now thinks as I do.” 

“Aunt Kate’s thoughts are never her own.” 

“ I tell you it is not fitting for my daughter to be staying 
in the house of this crank.” 

“Father!” 

“And — and — of this unknown woman. I tell you people 
are talking. The world is not to be set at defiance.” 

“ I am not afraid of the world. Don’t be angry. I must 
stay, because she needs a friend.” 

“Then let her find one among her equals.” 

“She needs help, and I think I can help her. I am so 
sorry for her.” 


244 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Why, in heaven’s name ? I suppose she has everything 
she ought to want ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, everything, except happiness.” 

“I tell you I — er — Thanks, much obliged.” Mr. 
Griffiths had come from the corridor with hat and coat. 
“ Thanks, thanks, Mr. Griffiths,” and he pulled on his coat, 
assisted by Lady Sarah. ‘ ‘ Thank you. Now, which is the 
way to the station ? ’ ’ 

“I’ll conduct you to the drive,” said Mr. Griffiths. 
“ You can’t go wrong.” 

Lord Patrington dropped his voice to a whisper. 

“You ’ll bitterly regret your obstinacy.” Lady Sarah 
shook her head. “ Tell Colbeck and Morton that I have 
gone.” 

Outside on the terrace, at the foot of the steps, Colbeck 
and Morton were talking together. 

“ Colbeck, it has come between me and my task. It has 
robbed me of half my strength. Yet how can I yield ? How 
could I do what she has asked me ? ’ ’ 

“ No. But perhaps the semblance of concession ” 

“How can I pretend to agree to so monstrous a thing ? ” 

“ But, after all, is it ? ” 

Lady Sarah coming down the steps was about to pass 
them, but Morton stopped her. 

“Don’t go, Lady Sarah. Stay, kind friend, and help to 
give me strength. You have seen that my wife and I are 
drifting apart ? ’ ’ 

“ I am so sorry.” 

“ Do you guess the force that is pushing us asunder, 
straining the bond of God’s sacrament?” 

“ No,” said Lady Sarah, hurriedly, “ I don’t guess.” 

‘ ‘ Money ! This terrible weight of money. A wall of gold 
is shutting me out from my wife’s heart.” 

“I don’t think I understand,” said Lady Sarah. 

“ How could you ? You don’t know the deadly influence 
of my treasure of gold — how it cankers our hearts, burns into 


The Ragged Messenger 


245 


our thoughts, day by day and hour by hour, eating away the 
healthy nerves and fibres of our brains till it leaves nothing 
but madness and corruption.” 

He spoke in low, deep tones, but with growing excite- 
ment. 

“ My dear fellow,” said Colbeck, soothingly. 

“ The chink of my gold drowns my voice when I stand 
before my people. The glitter of the world’s dross blinds my 
eyes when I look towards heaven. You know, Colbeck, 
that we have lived in an atmosphere of gold since that day 
when she and I stood alone, hand in hand, before our 
Maker.” 

“ Yes. But you ought not to think ” 

‘‘No stranger crosses our threshold but he is aflame with 
the lust of gold. They are all one — the professional beggars, 
the genteel beggars, the aristocratic beggars — the blood- 
suckers, the impostors — mock philanthropists, shallow 
swindlers. They crowd round us — stifling us with the 
poisoned breath of a base desire.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, not as bad as all that,” said Colbeck, gravely, sooth- 
ingly. “ A gathering of the vultures! ” 

‘ ‘ And she — the wife I love — she thinks me a miser, would 
have me give, to her undoing, what I hold for the sick and 
suffering.” 

“ She does n’t think,” said Lady Sarah. “ She does n’t 
consider.” 

“ Squander the salvation of the slaves on the follies of the 
idle — buy pomp, and vanity, and emptiness with the daily 
bread of the hungry! How can I do it? How can I 
do it?” 

“ But, my good friend,” said Colbeck, “ it is all so natural 
— really. She is your wife; she is young — with all the ca- 
pacity to enjoy.” 

“ Yes. But you don’t understand. Think what her life 
was, and what her life is. Everything in reason is hers. All 
that wealth can buy without sin is hers.” 


246 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ I assure you, many a rich man’s wife ” 

“ Many a rich man’s wife is feeding the fires of eternal 
torture. But shall viy wife do so ? I pray that her madness 
may pass from her, leaving her pure in heart and mind once 
more ; but I cannot yield — to rob the orphan and the 
helpless. ’ ’ 

“ No,” said Colbeck, in a low, soothing voice. “ No, not 
to do that.” 

“You remember what you said to me, Doctor, when I 
pleaded in my poverty for the world’s outcasts. You hoped 
that I might be tried by my own text. Then, in an hour, 
in a moment, the burden of my wealth was laid upon me, 
and I swore before you all, before her , that I would be true 
to my trust. Have I kept my word ? ’ ’ 

“ You have kept it nobly.” 

“ And am I not right? Am I not right, Lady Sarah? 
How can I betray my trust now ? How can I turn traitor to 
the faith that is in me ? ’ ’ 

“ No,” said Lady Sarah. “ You are right to be true to 
yourself. And she will come to see it. She will own it — in 
time.” 

“ Help me to make her mine again, in thought and will.” 

“ Yes— if I can.” 

“ Stay with us and help me.” 

Mr. Griffiths came to the window of the morning-room. 

“ The cart is at the door, Dr. Colbeck. His lordship has 
walked on towards the gates.” 

Colbeck looked at his watch and then bade Lady Sarah 
good-night. Morton, taking his arm, went with him to the 
outer door. 

“ Good-night, Mr. Griffiths, and many thanks for your 
kindness as timekeeper. And good-night to you, Mr. Big- 
land,” said Colbeck, cheerily, as the old man joined Griffiths 
in the window. 

Lady Sarah was glancing up and down the empty terrace 
when the matron of the Home approached diffidently. 


247 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Were you looking for Mrs. Morton, my lady ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ She is walking in the rose garden — with Mr. Bowman.” 
“Thank you,” said Lady Sarah, and she went towards 
the steps at the far end of the terrace. 


XXII 

W RAPPING her nurse’s cloak about her, Mrs. Elyard, 
with light footfall and modest, almost shrinking, 
demeanor, stole up the stone steps and took a discreet peep 
into the morning-room to assure herself that the guests had 
gone ere she ventured to enter. 

“ I have something on my mind,” Mr. Bigland was saying. 
“You don’t say so! ” said Mr. Griffiths, smiling at him. 
“What is it?” 

Mrs. Elyard looked back to the terrace before she spoke. 

“ I don’t think Eady Sarah remembers the proverb.” 

‘ ‘ What proverb ? ’ ’ asked Mr. Griffiths. 

Mrs. -Elyard replied with extreme emphasis. 

“ Two is company and three is none.” 

“I’ve always noticed, Mrs. Elyard, that people who 
quote that proverb neglect its personal application. ’ ’ 

“ Indeed ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes. For instance, Mr. Bigland and I were just about 
to enjoy a confidential chat all by ourselves — when you 
came in.” 

“ You are not very polite,” said Mrs. Elyard, with grim 
coquettishness, “ but I forgive you.” 

“Thanks.” 

“ I forgive you — because we are really in sympathy.” 

“ Are we really ? ” 

‘ ‘ Are n’ t we fellow- workers ? Am not I a fellow-helper ? ’ ’ 
“ Well — not that I was aware of.” 

“ Did n’t you know that I was helping you in your task ? ” 
248 


The Ragged Messenger 


249 


44 Pray, what do you suppose is my present task ? ” 

Mrs. Elyard looked round the room; observed Mr. Bigland 
standing inattentive with his back towards them by one of 
the windows ; and came quite close to Mr. Griffiths before 
she answered: 

“ To bowl out our lady.” 

44 What do you mean ? ” 

“You know very well.” 

“ Pardon me”, and Mr. Griffiths spoke firmly, and with 
some slight warmth. 44 If you think / am an enemy of Mrs. 
Morton’s, you are harboring a delusion. Disabuse yourself. 
Delusions are dangerous.” 

“Ah,” said Mrs. Elyard, dryly, “you maybe right in 
your policy. But you can’t deceive me, Mr. Griffiths, and 
you can’t prevent me helping you Enough said! ” 

Morton, after seeing his friend drive away, had re- 
turned. His dark face looked pallid and careworn in the 
yellow glow of the lamplight, and he moved and spoke 
wearily. 

“Well, Mrs. Elyard. You have brought the day’s 
reports ? ’ ’ 

4 4 Yes, sir. And a list of checks required. To-morrow 
is our local pay-day.” 

She opened her long cloak, disclosing her dark serge gown, 
the shining black leather belt with its hanging chatelaine, 
and produced a trim bundle of papers from a great pocket on 
the inside of the ugly cloak. 

4 4 Here they are, sir — only half a dozen checks. ’ ’ 

“Yes — yes, of course.” Morton took the papers, carried 
them to the table, and sat down wearily. 44 To-morrow. 
Pay-day,” he said absently. “Yes, don’t let us get behind 
with our work.” 

“If it is at all inconvenient,” said the matron, consider- 
ately, “ and I am afraid, sir, it is ” 

44 No, no. Walter shall write them out, and I ’ll sign 
them,” and he looked round. 44 Where is he? ” 


250 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Mr. Bowman,” said Mrs. Elyard, “ is strolling about the 
grounds with Mrs. Morton.” 

“And with Lady Sarah,” said Griffiths at the window, 
“ I can hear their voices.” 

“He ought to be here,” said Bigland, excitedly. “He 
ought to attend to the work. I ’ll fetch him.” 

“ No,” said Morton. “There is plenty of time. You ’re 
not in a hurry, Mrs. Klyard, for two or three minutes ? Sit 
down and rest. Poor lad! I worked him to death in Lon- 
don, and he would have worked till he dropped. Even our 
easier life here has n’t picked him up as I hoped. He won’t 
own it, though. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is 
weak.” 

“ No,” said Bigland, noisily. “ He is faint-hearted. He 
has taken his hand from the plough.” 

Morton looked at his old follower, coldly. 

“ You are not just, Bigland. He is young and not strong. 
Let the young twigs bend that the old boughs may not 
break.” 

“Faint-hearted! Faint-hearted,” old Bigland muttered 
again, abashed but not silenced by his master’s reproof. 

‘ ‘ Sit down, please, Mrs. Elyard, and wait. Bowman and 
I will be ready for you directly.” 

“ Thank you, sir.” And Mrs. Elyard, modestly selecting 
a chair against the wall with the straightest back that she 
could see, sat down and waited with hands demurely folded 
on her lap. 

“Sir!” said old Bigland, coming to his master’s elbow, 
slowly and doubtfully. 

“ Yes?” 

“ In our woods at home — Hampshire, sir — ’t was the chil- 
dren birds nesting that got bit by the adders. Their eyes on 
the topmost branches, you understand, sir, and no thought 
of the snakes come out into the sun.” 

“ Well? ” and Morton rose. 

“ Well, sir, is n’t that life? You, with your eyes fixed on 


The Ragged Messenger 251 

heaven — no thought of earth — no fear of adders sunning 
themselves.” 

Morton had turned his back and moved away. As he 
spoke, Bigland went after him. Now Morton turned and 
held up his hand. 

“Stop. Stop.” 

“ I can’t see you imposed upon;” 

“ Bigland, you mean well, but you are wrong. No one 
can impose upon me.” 

“You are too easy.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean. I don’t want to 
know. I should dread the sight of you, my poor old 
friend, if you began to deal in vague hints and veiled 
words.” 

“But, sir ” 

“Or if I thought you were trying to fill me with idle 
suspicion of a man I trust — of a man I love. I will fetch my 
secretary and we ’ll do our work, Mrs. Elyard,” and he went 
out into the garden. 

Mrs. Elyard vacated the straight-backed chair and came 
to the old man’s side. 

“ It ’s in the air of this house,” he said, as though talking 
to himself. “ I know it. I feel it.” 

“ What do you know? ” asked Mrs. Elyard, eagerly. 

“ What do you feel ? ” said Mr. Griffiths, contemptuously. 

‘ ‘ Deceit and mystery. In the air. I feel it. ’ ’ 

“Ah-hah!” said Mrs. Elyard, drawing in her breath. 
“You don’t like the goings-on of our fine lady any more 
than — Mr. Griffiths.” 

“ Mrs. Elyard,” said Griffiths, “ I did n’t quite understand 
you just now. But don’t let there be any mistake. Don’t 
suppose for a moment that I entertain any hostile feeling to 
my employer’s wife.” 

“ Don’t you? Then you ought to. You are not as good 
a detective as I think you, if you have n’t taken her measure 
long ago.” 


252 The Ragged Messenger 

“ Yes,” said old Bigland, noisily. “ Take her measure.” 

“ And seen what even our simple-minded friend here has 
seen.” 

“ He has seen nothing. Don’t suggest things to him.” 

“ Pooh! ” said Mrs. Elyard. “ There ’s no need of sug- 
gestions. I tell you we are not alone in our suspicions. The 
servants ’ ’ 

“ Nonsense,” said Griffiths. ‘‘Servants would suspect an 
angel.” 

“ Ah! They don’t suspect an angel in this case.” 

‘‘They do,” cried Bigland, with extraordinary violence. 
“His evil angel! I understand what you mean. I under- 
stand what you mean now." 

“ You see what you have done,” said Griffiths. 

“ I tell you,” said Mrs. Elyard, “ the servants have been 
talking.” 

“You mean you have made them talk.” 

“Well, say I have. That man Parrott has seen things — 
seen them together in the garden, whispering together in the 
twilight.” 

“ Parrott,” said Bigland, “ is a faithful servant.” 

“ But a fool.” 

“ Not the only fool,” said Mrs. Elyard. “A fool, but not 
a blind fool.” 

“ Who do you mean?” said Bigland, angrily. 

“ Never mind, Mr. Bigland. Not you" and she turned to 
Griffiths. “And the women servants! Don’t they see? 
Eittle scribbled notes crushed into hot hands, clasped for an 
instant as they pass on the stairs, or in the corridors ’ ’ ; and 
she turned again to Bigland. “ Deceit and mystery in the 
air! I tell you I know. I won’t tell you how I know. 
Not yet. Not till I am ready to speak.” 

“ I can’t wait,” Bigland shouted. “ He must know he is 
betrayed. He must know, and he must judge her.” 

“No, no. Wait till I tell you to speak.” 

The sound of voices outside was coming nearer and nearer. 


253 


The Ragged Messenger 

Mrs. Blyard clutched Mr. Bigland’s hand, and pressed it 
while she whispered to him in earnest entreaty: 

“ Wait, and trust me. It won’t be for long.” 

Morton and Bowman were coming up the steps. Lady 
Sarah and Mrs. Morton were close behind them. 

“Come, Mr. Bigland,” and Griffiths took him firmly by 
the arm. “ Come away. You must hear me now. I must 
drive this nonsense out of your head,” and he directed him, 
almost dragged him, from the room. 

“ It ’s all true. I feel it,” said Bigland as the door closed 
behind him. 

“ Here we are,” said Morton. “ Two minutes now, Mrs. 
Elyard.” 

“ Thank you, sir, I ’ll wait in the housekeeper’s room,” 
and at sight of the ladies the matron modestly withdrew. 

As she went out, Morton nodded to her with a friendly 
smile, and seated himself at the table. 

“ Now, Walter, we ’ll soon run through these,” and, with a 
pencil in his hand, he began to examine the matron’s papers 
in the bright circle of light from the green-shaded lamp. 

“ Yes, sir,” said Bowman, standing behind him. 

Mrs. Morton had thrown her shawl upon a sofa. 

“Surely the day’s work is over. Or does it never 
end?” 

Morton looked round quickly. 

“ This is nothing — only a few checks. Do you object to 
our doing it here ? ’ ’ 

“I object? Oh, no.” 

Morton looked up at Bowman, doubtfully. 

“You are not too tired, Walter?” Then, very gently, 
“ Don’t be afraid to tell me if you are.” 

“No. No, sir.” 

“ Come, then,” and, dropping his voice, he began to read 
out items while Bowman watched the slowly moving pencil. 
“ Coals for laundry. Kitchen coals.” 

“ Shall we go into the drawing-room ? ” said Lady Sarah. 


254 The Ragged Messenger 

Mrs. Morton did not answer. “Won’t you play to us a 
little?” 

“ No, I am dead tired.” 

Morton looked round, and then went on with his reading. 

“But you can play,” said Mrs. Morton. “I’ll come 
and listen to you.” 

L,ady Sarah opened the door and stood for a moment wait- 
ing, but Mrs. Morton leaning back on the sofa with half- 
closed eyes did not follow her, so she w T ent alone to the big 
drawing-room, and soon Mr. Morton was reading to a soft 
piano accompaniment. 

“Twenty-four, ten, three. Carriages to railway — fetching 
six children Monday, two children Wednesday, ten children 
Thursday. Yes. That ’s all right,” and taking up his pen 
he wrote busily. 

Mrs. Morton watched him through half-closed eyes for 
some time, and then, rising languidly, crossed the room very 
slowly. As she passed behind the table she touched Bow- 
man’s hand with hers. At the door she paused and looked 
back, but the secretary had not raised his eyes from the 
papers in the circle of light. 

“There, Walter,” said Morton, “I have filled in the 
checks myself. Go and enter the amounts and your day’s 
work is done.” 

Gathering together the papers and the check-book, Bow- 
man went out by the door leading into the corridor, without 
looking to right or to left. 

“ Mary!” 

Mrs. Morton, with her hand upon the door, turned and 
looked at her husband. He was standing by the table, with 
one hand stretched out towards her appealingly. 

“ Mary, have you no word for me? ” 

‘ ‘ What should I have to say ? ’ ’ 

“ That you are not still angry with me. That you have 
forgiven me for — for thwarting you. That you are learning 
to think as I do.” 


255 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ I shall never do that. Our ideas of life are different.” 

“Mary!” 

“ I told you, I was disappointed at first; but I am recon- 
ciled now.” 

“ Reconciled? ” 

“Don’t you want me to be reconciled to — your views? 
You are the master. Come and listen to L,ady Sarah’s 
music.” 

Morton stood by the table, motionless, for some time after 
his wife had left him. Then, deep in thought, he turned 
away from the pleasant invitation of the soft music and went 
out on the terrace. 

The warm night was growing darker. Tight clouds, that 
seemed to rise from the silent fields behind the gray beech- 
woods, had been floating high and fast across the sky, telling 
of busy air currents above the still atmosphere; and, gradu- 
ally banking, they had seemed to fall until they shut in the 
earth with heavy and oppressive curtains. Mr. Parrott, 
looking out at the open hall door, told Mr. Griffiths and Mr. 
Bigland that there would be rain before the morning. In the 
passages of the servants’ domain, doors were being closed 
with a rattle of the glass panels that reverberated along the 
stone flooring; footsteps, voices, and now and then a squeak 
of laughter announced that the servants were going to bed. 

“I shall go my round,” said Mr. Parrott, “and mostly 
close everything, relying on you, Mr. Bigland, to make good 
last thing as per usual.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Bigland. “ Go to bed. I am on guard.” 

Mr. Griffiths, still holding the old man by the arm, was 
talking earnestly as they stood at the hall door. 

L,ady Sarah was still playing, so Mr. Parrott left the 
drawing-room alone, but everywhere else he fastened the 
windows and closed the shutters. In the empty morning- 
room, he put out two of the lamps by way of a hint that bed- 
time was arriving for all desirous of keeping country hours; 


256 


The Ragged Messenger 

shut two windows; fixed the bars of the shutters, and let fall 
the chintz curtains; brought the door shutters half way 
across the middle window, and was about to drop the cur- 
tains there also when Mr. Griffiths’ voice and a stranger’s 
voice caused him to stay his hand in surprise. 

“ This way, Doctor. This way, please,” said Mr. Griffiths 
outside in the corridor. 

“This way,” he said, rather nervously and fussily, as he 
ushered in the stranger. ‘ ‘ Parrott, go and tell them all that 
Dr. Farley of Liverpool is here. Never mind those cur- 
tains,” and he raised his voice and spoke hurriedly and 
loudly. “Quick. Go and tell Mr. Morton Dr. Farley has 
come. Tell them all. Look sharp now. Dr. Farley of 
Liverpool. ’ ’ 

He shouted the name after him as Mr. Parrott let fall the 
chintz curtain and went towards the drawing-room. 

“A slow, stupid fellow,” said Mr. Griffiths, dropping his 
voice and apologizing for his fussiness. ‘ ‘ A good servant, 
but one has to hustle him. Be seated, Dr. Farley. They 
will be here directly.” 

“You are sure that I am not disturbing Mr. Morton at 
this late hour. ’ ’ 

“Quite. He would have been angry, if I had allowed 
you to go.” 

“ He is very kind.” 

“ Your train is at eleven-five.” 

“Yes. The last.” 

“ I won’t let you miss it.” 

Dr. Farley was a strongly-built man of thirty, with a thick, 
close-cut beard and a bald forehead. He was carrying a dust 
coat across his heavy shoulders, and the coat concealed the 
slight stoop of the broad back that had been bowed by the 
student’s desk, and not by the weight of years. He looked 
what he was — a large-brained man of resolute purpose and 
undeviating aim; and already he had acquired that solid 
composure and dignified self-confidence in voice, manner, 


2 57 


The Ragged Messenger 

and bearing which come to a few men very early in the 
career which they have mapped out for themselves, and 
which, once attained, prevent them from being ever again 
counted as young men, no matter what their real age may 
be. With his coat slung over his shoulder, he sat waiting 
composedly, while Griffiths fidgeted about the room and 
apologized for the delay of the hosts. 

“Ah — here comes Mr. Morton.” 

Griffiths at the window looped up the chintz curtain and 
stood by the half-closed shutters as Morton came up the 
steps from the terrace. 

“Dr. Farley, sir,” said Griffiths. “Finding Dr. Colbeck 
had gone, he did not wish to come in.” 

“ I am very glad,” said Morton, shaking hands. 

“ I needed very little persuasion, Mr. Morton, for I wanted 
to shake your hand and to thank you.” 

‘ ‘ Thank me ? For what ? ’ ’ 

“ For the noble work you have done here — for the free 
hand you have given to the pioneers of modern orthopaedics.” 

“You have seen the Home ? ” 

“ I have been there two hours. Your matron was absent, 
but one of the secretaries — Mr. Johnson — showed me every- 
thing.” 

“ And you were satisfied ? ” 

“Satisfied is a poor word; but Dr. Colbeck tells me you 
won’t hear praise — least of all from a stranger.” 

“ If you must praise,” said Morton, smiling, “praise Col- 
beck. It is his work. ” 

“Yours or his — it is a splendid challenge to some of our 
great hospitals. Let them cast out their hopeless cases if 
they must, but — as Colbeck always said — let them drop that 
horrible word — incurable. Nothing but death is incurable. 
You are showing that there must be no giving up the fight 
till the battle is over.” 

“ Well, well.” 

“ Forgive me.” Dr. Farley went on in the most matter- 

17 


258 


The Ragged Messenger 

of-fact tone, and with a slight smile at his host’s impatience 
under a compliment. “ But I assure you, something I fan- 
cied I saw in your beautiful Home stirred me deeply — some- 
thing I had never seen before.” 

“Ah well!” 

“ A new symptom — you know — excites us students, and I 
really wanted to see the man who had discovered a little 
flicker of hope where our text-books only traced despair — ” 
and he held out his hand. “ To see him, and to thank him. 
Good-bye, Mr. Morton.” 

“ Good-bye. But you ’ll have supper — something.” 

‘ ‘ Nothing. Thanks. ’ ’ And picking up his hat, coat over 
shoulder, Dr. Farley turned towards the door. 

“Sir,” said Griffiths. “Mightn’t it be as well to ask 
Dr. Farley one or two questions ? I know he would like to 
help us.” 

“How can Dr. Farley help us ? ” said Morton, absently. 
Then striking his forehead, and speaking eagerly, “Yes, of 
course. Yes.” 

“I am afraid,” said Dr. Farley, “ I can’t add to what I 
told you, Mr. Griffiths.” 

“No. But not to miss the chance! Mr. Morton is so 
anxious to leave no stone unturned.” 

“ I am most anxious.” 

“ On the chance, I have fetched out my notes of all that 
you told me — all that you could tell.” 

“Unfortunately,” said Dr. Farley, “ it was so little.” 

“You only saw the woman for a minute or two at a time.” 

“ Yes. And not more than three or four times.” 

“You told me only three times exactly.” 

“No doubt that is correct. My recollection was fresher 
then.” 

“You never saw her after the solicitor — the late Mr. Gor- 
don — told her that she was not to come into anything upon 
Mr. Vavasour’s death?” 

“No.” 


The Ragged Messenger 


259 


“ Now,” and Griffiths began to read from the notebook 
that he had brought out of his pocket. “ ‘ Tall, dark eyes, 
very silent and subdued — ladylike.’ Yes; but it ’s all so 
vague and indefinite.” 

“ I suppose it is,” said Dr. Farley. 

‘ ‘ If you could have given details of costume— material of 
dress; color, cut, and so on.” Mr. Griffiths turned to his 
employer as though an idea had just occurred to him. ‘ ‘Mrs. 
Morton might help us, perhaps, to elicit some feminine traits. 
She might aid us by suggestions, ” and he went towards the 
window. ‘‘I wonder where Mrs. Morton is. I fancy she 
must have gone into the garden.” 

“Yes,” said Morton, “she was passing to the terrace when 
Parrott fetched me. I will ask her to come in.” 

“ Would you mind, sir,” said Griffiths, “ and if she does 

not mind ” Then turning to Dr. Farley as soon as they 

were alone — “ I dare say you think me very tiresome.” 

“ Not in the least.” 

“Well, after the very handsome way you just spoke of 
my employer I won’t scruple.” 

“ I only wish I could help you.” 

“I can assure you the matter is of vital interest to him.” 

“Really?” 

“ Yes. And you see the misfortune is, with investigations 
of this sort, accuracy of description is the one thing we detec- 
tives must have, and accuracy is the one thing we can’ t get. ’ ’ 

Dr. Farley nodded his head. 

“You say this woman was tall and so on. But what idea 
does that convey ? Really none, ’ ’ and Mr. Griffiths smiled. 
“I know, sir, that you have taxed your memory to the 
utmost, and yet you can’t tell me anything that differentiates 
her from the first half-dozen women I may next meet in the 
streets.” 

“Iam afraid I can’t. Had she been my patient ” 

“ Yes — of course. But if only I could get something fixed 
■ — definite. We must have something to guide us,” and he 


26 o 


The Ragged Messenger 

looked round to the window. “Anything would help us. 
Look here,” and he produced a photograph from his pocket. 
“One of my snapshots enlarged,” and he seemed to admire 
his own work in the manner peculiar to amateur photogra- 
phers. “ Not a bad print either. Group in a London hospital; 
lady visitor bending over man in bed. Now, for instance — 
you say the woman was tall and slender,” and he offered the 
photograph. “ We must have a guide. Was she anything 
like that sort of woman ? As tall as that, for instance? ” 

“ Yes. That is the woman.” 

Mr. Griffiths took back the photograph with a very dis- 
appointed air, but he smiled good-humoredly. 

“Ah, Doctor Farley, with the best will in the world, you 
are not reliable. That lady is Mrs. Morton, my employer’s 
wife.” 

“ No ! Let me look again,” and Dr. Farley examined the 
photograph as Mr. Griffiths held it in his hand before put- 
ting it away in his pocket. ‘ ‘ When I say it is exactly like 
— I mean in general appearance — if I can trust my memory. 
Yes,” he said firmly “it was just such a woman.” 

“Sufficient resemblance to serve us as a guide ? ” 

“ Quite. You really may rely on me so far as that.” 

“Thanks,” and Griffiths turned to Morton as he returned 
from the garden. “Well, sir? ” 

“ She is so weary that she begs me to excuse her. My 
wife is far from strong — and is very tired, Dr. Farley. An- 
other time I hope to introduce you to her.” Then, speaking 
to Griffiths, “ She is so tired that she begged Lady Sarah to 
stay with her. I thought that Lady Sarah might ' ’ 

“No,” said Griffiths, “I doubt if she could assist us. 
It ’s of no consequence. I have learnt all that Dr. Farley 
has to tell us,” and he looked at his watch. “ Yes, I think 
it would be wise to be moving, Doctor. You have twenty- 
two minutes — ample time! ” 

“Good-bye, Mr. Morton. I shall venture to come again 
when I am next in London.” 


The Ragged Messenger 


26 


“Do,” said Morton. “I will walk with you to the gates.” 

In the hall, making way for his guest to pass out, he spoke 
to Griffiths in low anxious tones. 

“ Well ? Have you learnt anything fresh ? ” 

“Absolutely nothing,” said Griffiths, emphatically. 
“It ’s no good worrying him. As I told you, sir, we have 
come to a closed door. Leave it so. I shall never find the key . ’ ’ 

Mr. Griffiths, following them a little way along the drive, 
turned and slowly sauntered round the silent house to the 
long terrace. He strolled from end to end, and quickened 
his pace on catching the sound of footsteps coming up the 
steps from the lower level. It was Lady Sarah, alone. 

“Ah, Lady Sarah,” said Griffiths, “ you are too late to see 
that clever young doctor. He has gone to catch his train. 
Mr. Morton is walking to the gates with him.” 

“Thank you,” said Lady Sarah, turning to descend the 
steps again. 

Mr. Griffiths leant for a moment on the stone parapet, 
looking down into the darkness below. 

“ Yes. Tell Mrs. Morton the doctor has departed. She 
just asked you to find out, did n’t she? ” 

“ Yes,” said Lady Sarah, going down the steps. 

Then he heard her speaking below — “ Mrs. Morton. 

There is nobody here. He has gone ” and he strolled 

away. 

“ Are you sure he has gone? ” said Mrs. Morton in a low 
voice. 

“Yes. Mr. Griffiths told me.” 

“Ah! ” And Mrs. Morton rose slowly from a stone 

bench in the dark shadow beneath one of the big conifers. 

“ You are dreadfully tired, I am afraid ” 

“ Don’t be afraid about me,” said Mrs. Morton, as they 
moved towards the house. “ The programme of our days is 
exhausting, but it comes to an end at last. It somehow 
ends at last. I don’t suppose we shall have any more 
visitors to-night.” 


262 


The Ragged Messenger 


“ Mrs. Morton.” 

“Well!” 

‘ ‘ Do you remember, once you asked me to be your friend ? ” 

“Did I?” 

In the darkness, as they walked side by side, Lady Sarah’s 
voice trembled, and the words came hurriedly : 

“ And now I ask you, I beg you, to let me be your friend.” 

“ I don’t quite understand you,” said Mrs. Morton, very 
coldly, as they mounted the steps. 

“ I know you don’t like me,” said Lady Sarah. “ Per- 
haps it is my own fault. ’ ’ 

“ What a strange notion! ” 

“ But believe me — you may trust me”; and she waited, 
but Mrs. Morton climbed the steps in silence. “ Will you 
think of me as a friend — always close at hand. Some one to 
confide in, to lean on. Some one who would loyally ” 

“ Oh, thank you. A friend in need is a friend indeed,” 
and Mrs. Morton laughed. “ If ever I am in need, Lady 
Sarah, I ’ll remember that you are there — a little late in the 
day, but a tower of strength, as my husband says.” 

“ I am sorry that you won’t trust me.” 

“ But I do. I always have.” 

“Yes, but ” 

“It must be past eleven!” In the narrowed strip of 
lamplight from the morning- room, Mrs. Morton yawned and 
passed her hand across her forehead, wearily. “ I am so 
tired that you must tell me your reasons for this outburst of 
friendship some other time, will you ? You don’t mind, do 
you?” 


XXIII 


M 


ARY!” 

Bowman, softly opening the door of the morning- 
room, whispered the name. 

Mrs. Morton was alone, standing by the door of her own 
room, and she pointed significantly to the window. 

Cautiously and noiselessly he drew the shutter across the 
open half of the window; let fall the curtain; came back, 
and took her in his arms. 

* 1 Take care, ’ ’ she whispered. ‘ ‘ Eady Sarah ! She is in 
there,” and she pointed towards the drawing-room. 

With his face against hers, holding her close to him, he ran 
his hand about her neck. 

“ You are cold. You have been chilled.” 

“ No. I have had a fright. It ’s all right. I’m all 
right now.” 

“What has frightened you ? ” 

“Everything. Everybody. I have been in danger to- 
night.” 

“How?” 

“We are surrounded by spies. That woman, Eady Sarah, 
suspects.” 

“ Why did you ask her here? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know. To keep him occupied — to give me 
freedom,” and she laughed silently, and shivered. “She 
used to be in love with him. In her saintly, feeble way, I 
believe she is in love with him still. She ought to have had 
his money — if she had been clever.” 

263 


264 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Let her have the money now. Do what I asked you. 
Leave him and his money.” He had released her from his 
embrace and was speaking in great agitation, struggling to 
keep his voice down to the low tone she had used. ‘ ‘ Leave 
it and take freedom in exchange. * ’ 

“No. I can’t face misery again.” 

“ But there shall be no misery. Don’t be afraid! Once we 
are free, I shall be as strong as a lion. Only the deadly de- 
ceit and ingratitude of our sin have paralyzed me. My dar- 
ling, you must set me free by freeing yourself. I can’t stand 
it. It drives me mad. ” 

“Hush!” and she looked round cautiously. Her eyes 
were full of fear, and, as she whispered, the words were 
broken by a shiver. “ Don’t talk like that. Don’t be — 
unreasonable.” 

“What is it all worth to you? You can’t face misery! 
But you are miserable here. ’ ’ 

“Not since I have had a companion.” 

“ Your fellow-slave! It is time for the slaves to break the 
chain.” 

“ Be reasonable. I am so tired — too tired to argue with 
you.” 

“ But I tell you I can’t stand it. The life we lead is driv- 
ing me mad. All day I am scheming to be with you, and 
when our stolen moments come they are poisoned by the 
dread of discovery.” 

“ Yes. Don’t speak so loud.” 

“ I want to persuade you — show you that it must come 
to that sooner or later. Sooner or later discovery must 

come.” 

“We have only to be careful.” 

“ No care can save us. He must know some time.” 

‘ ‘ Why should he ? ” 

“ Because I shall tell him. One day when he rests his 
hand on my shoulder and tells me of some new benefit con- 
ferred, I shall tell him.” 


The Ragged Messenger 


265 


“ No, you ’d not do that.” 

” I shall tell him the truth. I shall say: You saved me 
from death, you fed me, clothed me, treated me as you would 
an only son. Such benefits deserve some return. Now hear 
how I have shown my gratitude.” 

“ Walter, Walter, are you really going mad?” 

“ Yes. My love for you and my scorn for myself will 
make me say all that, one day, if you keep me here.” 

Glancing round again, she drew him across to the sofa and 
sat with her arms round his neck. 

“ No, no. Now listen. You must control yourself for 
my sake. You must see that it is weak and hysterical to 
talk like that.” 

‘‘I am weak.” 

With her arms about his neck she pressed her cold lips 
against his face, kissing him on forehead and cheek and 
mouth before she whispered again — 

“ If you really suffer, you must go away and be free.” 

“ Mary!” 

“ And I will come and see you when I can. We will con- 
trive things. It will be difficult, and we sha’n’t be able to 
seize opportunities as we do here, but ” 

“ If your love was like mine you would n’t speak so 
lightly.” 

“You know how I love you, Walter.” 

With her arms still round his neck she leant back, draw- 
ing him with her, and held him with her face pressed against 
his for a few moments in silence. 

“ You must n’t be a silly boy. You know I love you.” 

“ Listen. You must let me see you to-night. I must talk 
to you freely and alone. I know I can persuade ” 

“No. No.” 

“ Wait till the house has been quiet an hour — then come 
up to my room.” 

“Walter, I can’t. I can never do it again. It is too 
dangerous.” 


266 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ There is no danger.” He spoke in a gasping whisper, 
louder than before. “You must come.” 

“ I dare n’t.” She had unwound her arms and was hold- 
ing his hand in hers. “ I have been mad to risk it so often. 
I tell you we are in a garrison of spies. That man Griffiths 
is watching me.” 

“ Fancies! ” he whispered. “ You must come — or I shall 
come to you. That ’s more dangerous! Do you hear? 
You must come.” 

“ Hush, for heaven’s sake. Some one on the terrace! ” 

She had jumped up and torn herself away from his hands, 
as they tried for a moment to detain her. Now with a hand 
that trembled, she pointed to the window. In the silence of 
the room he could hear her breathing as he pulled back the 
curtain, and threw open the shutter. A cloaked figure was 
standing on the steps. 

“Mrs. Klyard!” 

The matron came forward apologetically. 

Mrs. Morton, about to enter her room, turned with a very 
pale smile. 

“Has Mrs. Elyard been waiting for her checks all this 
time? What a shame! ” 

“ Oh, no, ma’am. Not that it would have been any con- 
sequence if I had. I have my key, and they would n’t worry 
about me at the Home. It ’s only one of the accounts I left 
behind; and I came back hoping I might get it without dis- 
turbing anybody.” She stood on the threshold, very apolo- 
getic in manner. “ I had no idea you were here, ma’am, or 
I would not have ventured. It ’s the laundry account, if 
you should find it, Mr. Bowman, to-morrow.” 

“ Oh, pray come in and look now,” said Mrs. Morton. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” and Mrs. Elyard came shyly to 
the writing-table, and almost at once discovered the missing 
document. 

“ Good-night, Mrs. Elyard. I feel I shall sleep soundly 
to-night. Good-night, Mr. Bowman.” 


The Ragged Messenger 267 

And Mrs. Morton went into her room, closed the door, 
and locked it on the inside. 

“ Is that all ? ” 

“ Yes, thank you, Mr. Bowman.” 

“ I am sorry,” he said, as Mrs. Elyard folded the paper 
and bestowed it in her pouch-like pocket, ‘ ‘ that I did keep 
you waiting just now. I ought not to have forgotten about 
those checks.” 

“Don’t mention it. Old heads don’t grow on young 
shoulders, Mr. Bowman. Good-night, I ’ll slip back by the 
gardens as fast as I can. I have my key, but it is getting 
late,” and she went out into the darkness of the terrace. 

He stood and watched as she went down the steps. Then, 
hastily letting fall the curtain, he hurried to the closed door; 
turned and shook the handle, and tapped the panel cautiously. 
Then he called through the door in a low voice, “ Mary! 
Mary!” 

There was no answer. If she heard him, she was pretend- 
ing not to hear. Walking across to the table he paused ir- 
resolutely; then came back to the closed door, and tapped 
again upon the panels. Then returning to the table he sat, 
and with nervous fingers searched for a piece of paper, took 
a pencil, and wrote in furtive haste. As he sat writing, a 
long fold in the window curtain moved slightly and noise- 
lessly. Then, folding his piece of paper into a flat spill, he 
went back to the door; knelt, and cautiously pushed the pa- 
per beneath the door. Rising to his feet, he looked round the 
room, and, tapping lightly, called once more in a hoarse whis- 
per, ‘ ‘ Mary, Mary.” Then, after listening for a few moments, 
he stole from the room and crept away along the corridor. 

Instantly the curtain opened. Stooping, hurrying, on tip- 
toe, Mrs. Elyard came to the door, and, sinking down, 
crouched cat-like on the ground. Flinging back her cloak, 
she swiftly detached a knife from her hanging chatelaine, 
and with the opened blade began stealthily to scrape about 
beneath the door. Stretched upon the floor, with her head 


268 


The Ragged Messenger 

on the carpet itself, she lay and worked the flat blade of the 
knife with busy fingers, until in a minute she had drawn out 
the paper so far that it showed plainly. Then, turning her 
knife, she drove the sharp point into the paper, and swiftly, 
but with unremitting caution, she extracted the paper com- 
pletely. Absorbed in her task, without eyes or ears for 
aught else, she crouched over the paper as a cat crouches 
over its meal, so engrossed in its hunger or greed that it does 
not hear the approach of a dog or a man. 

Slowly rising to her knees, she looked round and started. 
Griffiths had followed her into the room and now stood 
watching her. 

‘ ‘ All ! ’ ’ and she got upon her feet, crept away from the 
door, and spoke in a horrible, breathless triumph. “ I told 
you it would n’t be long. He put this under her door.” 

“Who?” 

“ Bowman. I saw him do it. A moment ago. What do 
you say now f ’ ’ 

‘‘What do you mean?” said Griffiths, frowning at her. 
As he came towards her she sprang away from him lightly, 
noiselessly, with cat-like ease; and now she turned and 
came cautiously to him. ‘‘You know his writing. Look 
here. Read it,” and jealously retaining it in both hands, 
she held the unfolded paper under his eyes. ‘ ‘ Read it, ’ ’ and, 
as he looked down and read, she whispered the written words 
with a horrible gloating triumph. ‘‘My darling. You must 
come to my room to-night. It is quite safe! ” 

As though in dread lest her prize should be snatched from 
her she sprang aside, and, refolding the paper, continued 
breathlessly: 

“I disturbed them. Then I watched him writing — 
watched him put it under the door — but I got it out — with 
this knife.” She had returned to the door, brandishing her 
knife, explaining in her triumphant whisper, and sinking on 
her knees, as though glorying in the representation of her 
skill. “ Like this! With my knife — like this - — like this . ’ ’ 


The Ragged Messenger 


269 


“ What are you doing?” said Griffiths, sharply. 

” I have put it back! ” and she got up again. “ I want it 
to reach her. Hush ! ” Springing back she flung her arms 
round the frowning man, and enveloped him in a horrible, 
stifling embrace. Convulsively pressed in the twitching 
circle of her arms, he felt her hot, panting breath upon his 
face as she clung and whispered, “ Hush. She has opened 
the inner door; don’t speak,” and she clung about him with 
cat-like ferocity, in her terror that he might, using his 
strength, break away from her and get to the door. ‘ ‘ Hah ! ’ ’ 
with a gasp of satisfaction, “ she has shut her door”; and, 
releasing him, she crept back to the door, and holding up a 
warning hand stooped to listen. “That ’s better! She 
can’t hear us now. I believe the inner door was open before, 
but it ’s shut now,” and she came back with a lividly smil- 
ing face; and, as she shook out her long cloak and readjusted 
her rumpled hair and bonnet, recovered her composure. 
“Hah,” and she drew in her breath, “but she has got it 
now, and she ’ll do as she ’s asked . . . she ’ll join him! ” 
“ How dare you say that? ” 

“ I knew it would n’t be long.” 

“ Mrs. Elyard — you have discovered this young man’s 

madness, but if you suppose ” 

“ I don’t suppose. I know. Where is Mr. Morton ? ” 
“You ’ll not dare to say a word to him.” 

“ Indeed! That ’s not my idea of my duty to my em- 
ployer. Ah! Come here. At last! ” 

Mr. Bigland had opened the door in the corridor. 

“ What is it ? The time for speaking ? ” 

“ It has come quicker than I thought,” said Mrs. Elyard, 
with her hand upon his arm. 

“ She is guilty. You have found her out ? ” 

“ Nonsense,” said Griffiths, “ nonsense. Don’t believe a 
word of it.” 

“I have positive proof of her guilt,” said Mrs. Elyard, 
“ and yet he wants me not to tell him.” 


270 The Ragged Messenger 

“Not tell him! I will shout it from the housetop. Where 
is she ? ’ ’ 

“In there,” said Mrs. Klyard. “Don’t make a noise. 
She can’t hear us, but speak low.” 

“ Where is my master ? Let him come and let him judge 
her.” 

Griffiths had opened the drawing-room door and looked 
into the room almost despairingly. Lady Sarah, standing 
by a low book-case, was choosing a volume to take upstairs 
with her. 

“ Lady Sarah, please come,” said Griffiths, despairingly; 
and book in hand, she came across the room. “ Help me to 
quiet him.” 

“Where is my master?” said Bigland again. “He is 
foully betrayed, and this man says we are to be silent.” 

“ What does he mean ? ” asked Lady Sarah, her face turn- 
ing suddenly white. 

* ‘ They want to make a horrible accusation against Mrs. 
Morton.” 

“ Oh, no! ” and Lady Sarah’s face, flushing as Griffiths 
spoke, became very pale again. 

“ We are going to give him the truth,” said Mrs. 
Klyard. 

“ I tell you,” said Griffiths, “ you are mistaken.” 

“ Yes,” said Lady Sarah, “ you must be mistaken.” 

“Lady Sarah,” said Mrs. Klyard, “you have had your 
suspicions, I daresay, as well as others. Well, now we have 
the proof, and — ” resolutely — “ I am going to lay the proof 
before him. Mr. Griffiths, if you think you can pick your 
words better than I can, you shall be our spokesman.” 

With a frown Griffiths implored her to cease speaking. 
He had heard footsteps on the pavement of the hall. His 
employer had come back. 

“ He is coming,” said Bigland. “ My master is coming.” 

“ Now,” asked Mrs. Klyard, “ are you going to speak, or 
shall we?” 


The Ragged Messenger 271 

* * I will tell him, ’ ’ said Griffiths, and he turned to Eady 
Sarah. “There’s no help for it.” 

‘ ‘ Everybody up still ? ” said Morton. “ It is late. Where 
is my wife? ’’ 

“Gone to her room,”' said Mrs. Elyard. 

“ Have n’t you got your checks, Mrs. Klyard ? Where is 
Walter?” 

“ In his room,” said Bigland. “ I watched him go.” 

“ He gave me the checks, sir.” 

Morton had gone to the writing-table and sat down. 
Moving the reading-lamp, he glanced from one to another 
inquiringly as they stood silent. 

“Well?” 

“Tell him,” said Mrs. Elyard. 

Morton glanced at her, and then turned to Eady Sarah, 
who lifted her hand to her throat and lowered her eyes in 
pale distress. He got up quickly, and stood looking at 
Griffiths. 

‘ ‘ What have you to tell me ? I see you are all big with 
mystery, and I hate mystery. What is it?” 

“Tell him,” said Mrs. Elyard. 

“ While you were absent,” said Griffiths, slowly, “ some- 
thing has happened, sir, which they think you ought to 
know of.” 

“Yes,” said Bigland, “you must know and you must 
judge.” 

“This lady,” said Griffiths, with a nod of the head to- 
wards the matron, “prying into matters which in no way 
concern her, has seen something.” 

‘ ‘ What has she seen ? ’ ’ 

“ It appears that young Mr. Bowman has just now passed 
a pencil note under that door. ’ ’ 

“Yes?” 

“ Mrs. Elyard, acting on her own responsibility, contrived 
to get possession of the paper. ’ ’ 

“ And showed it to you,” said Mrs. Elyard. 


272 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ As this concerns only yourself, sir, and Mrs. Morton, I 
should not have mentioned it, and I advised Mrs. Elyard to 
be silent; but, as she ventures to make the worst interpreta- 
tion of the matter — which Mr. Bowman can no doubt readily 
explain ’ ’ 

“ What has he to explain ? ” 

“ Well — I think there is indiscretion, folly — I may almost 
say madness in his conduct.” 

“ Don’t go, Lady Sarah.” 

“ I know this is all some dreadful mistake,” said Lady 
Sarah, “ but I can’t stay to hear any accusation against Mrs. 
Morton.” 

“What accusation can be made against my wife? You 
must remain, please. I may need your aid.” 

“ I would rather not. I cannot listen to ” 

“ Are you afraid on your own account, or on my wife’s? 
You insult her by showing fear. Go on, Griffiths.” 

“ Well — that is all, sir. Mrs. Elyard, before I could pre- 
vent her, replaced this silly scrawl — and — and it has now 
reached Mrs. Morton, who should, of course, have been 
spared the annoyance of ever receiving it.” 

“ Is that all you have to tell me?” 

“ That is all, sir.” 

“Is your memory so bad,” said Morton, sternly, “that 
you don’t remember what the note contained? What did 
Mr. Bowman say ? ” 

Griffiths coughed and cleared his throat. 

“ He asked Mrs. Morton to visit him, in his room, to- 
night.” 

‘ ‘ To-night ? Nothing more ? ’ ’ 

“ That it would be quite safe, or some words to that effect.” 

“ Yes. And pray, Mrs. Elyard, what is the interpretation 
that you make of all this ? ” 

‘ ‘ I can only echo Mr. Griffiths’ remark. I make the worst 
interpretation.” 

Morton laughed. 


273 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ I wonder what is your notion of the angels, Mrs. Elyard. 
You are clever at imagining the demons. But you are faith- 
ful and honest, and you were right to tell me what you dis- 
covered — so that if necessary, I might act. Forewarned is 
forearmed, is n’t it? ” 

“ I am glad you have justified me.” 

“ Yes. But only in your action, you know. Not in your 
evil thoughts,” and he laughed again. “ You yourself must 
justify those to your conscience. And now,” he said cheer- 
fully, “we can break up our secret conclave — or the drone of 
our hushed voices may come to the ears of my wife. I am 
grateful to you all.” As he spoke, in low firm tones, he 
moved about the room; and then came back to the table. 

‘ ‘ To-morrow I will speak to this foolish boy and tell him 
that, though to the pure all things are pure, the simplest 
acts may take a hideous shape in the evil eye of the world. 
When he pleads to his master’s wife to come to him in the 
dead of the night — to hear some tale of trouble — some scheme 
for her happiness or mine — he no more dreams that wrong 
could come of it than some young girl, hiding the picture of 
her Saint in her book of prayers, fears he may be mistaken 
for her lover. But we live in the world, and in some sort 
must bow to its sordid code. I will show him the danger 
that walks side by side with innocence. Henceforth, Mrs. 
Elyard, he will write no more notes to his patron, and will 
prefer his petitions in the public eye. You and I, Eady 
Sarah, must teach them both — the chivalrous laws of the 
world we live in.” 

“I don’t understand,” said old Bigland, trembling with 
excitement, ‘ ‘ I don’t understand. What are all these words ? 
Why don’t you judge him ? You have heard his guilt.” 

“ Guilt! Be silent, my friend. There is no guilt 
here.” 

“ I had better speak, sir,” said Mrs. Elyard. “The letter 
we saw was not the letter of a supplicant, but of a lover.” 

“ How can that be when there was no hint of love in it? 


274 The Ragged Messenger 

Had there been sin in his heart, the sin would have spoken 
in some word of love.” 

“ There was such a word.” 

“Griffiths, is this true?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Oh, his sin spoke boldly enough, sir,” said Mrs. Elyard. 

“ You took no thought,” said Bigland, waving his arms, 
“ of the snakes at your feet, and they have lifted their heads 
and struck at you. Crush them under your heel, sir — 
trample out their wicked life.” 

“ Be silent ! ” 

‘ ‘ Wither them with your wrath — and drive them out into 
darkness. Be strong, sir, as you were in the old days, before 
your evil angel came to sap your strength and steal your 
power over your people.” 

“ Peace! I tell you, be silent.” 

“ We are sorry for you, sir,” said Mrs. Elyard, “ but your 
eyes must be opened. We have all suspected that you were 
being shamefully deceived.” 

“It is not so,” said Eady Sarah. 

“You won’t own it, my lady, but you have seen the 
traffickings between them as clearly as we have.” 

“ I have seen nothing wrong.” 

“Ask Mr. Griffiths, sir. He knows. The servants have 
seen it too. There is hardly a soul in the house that has n’t 
suspected.” 

‘ ‘ Griffiths, is there any truth in this ? ’ ’ 

“lam afraid this miserable young man may have enter- 
tained feelings ” 

“You mean,” said Morton, very sternly, “ he is guilty .” 

“Oh, don’t blind yourself, sir,” said Mrs. Elyard. “He 
is not alone. Don’t suppose it ’s his first invitation, sir, or 
that he would have ventured it without well knowing it 
would be accepted.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean that if left alone she would join him.” 


The Ragged Messenger 275 

“Don’t listen to her,” said Lady Sarah. “It is too 
horrible. ’ * 

Morton, recoiling a step, had raised his clenched fist be- 
fore his face as though guarding himself from an invisible 
blow. As Lady Sarah spoke he dropped his arm, and, 
throwing back his head, looked round with watchful 
eyes. 

“ Griffiths, you hear what this woman says. I charge 
you to tell me truly. Do you believe that my wife is inno- 
cent or guilty ? ’ ’ 

He had leant his clenched fist upon the table, and was 
speaking in a low and very thoughtful voice. As he asked 
his question he lowered his eyes, and his fingers opening be- 
gan to smooth the littered papers on the table. Then, push- 
ing them away, he traced with his forefinger imaginary 
figures, circles, and curves on the blotting-pad, while with 
downcast eyes he waited for an answer. 

“I am afraid,” said Griffiths, clearing his throat again, 
‘ ‘ she has been imprudent enough to ’ ’ 

“Ah! You think her guilty. And you, Bigland?” 

“ Guilty. She is your evil angel.” 

“ Lady Sarah, what do you say ? As you hope for eternal 
life, give me the truth. Do you think her guilty ? ” 

“ I cannot answer.” 

‘ ‘ Do you believe her innocent ? ’ ’ 

“ I cannot answer.” 

“Ah! Guilty. You are of one mind,” he said in a low 
voice, still watching his finger as with slow care it traced the 
imaginary curves and circles in the light from the shaded 
lamp. “Your verdict — guilty, guilty, guilty,” and he 
looked up, drawing himself to his full height. “Well, I 
tell you, as I hope for heaven, you are wrong. She is 
innocent.” 

“ No,” said Bigland, waving his arms. 

“ I tell you she is innocent — innocent in thought and 
word and act.” 


276 


The Ragged Messenger 

“Ah, sir, you try to think so,” and Mrs. Elyard drew in 
her breath with a gasp. “You try to think so, but you 
dare n’t prove her. You dare n’t put her to the test.” 

“ I know she is innocent.” 

“Yet she stands confessed if you did n’t blind yourself. 
She has his note. If she is innocent — why is she silent, 
waiting in there ? Why has n’t she come to you and shown 
you the letter and proved her innocence by denouncing 
him?” 

“ Because in my wife’s heart, Mrs. Elyard, there is a 
strange flaw — the weakness of pity. Pity for the man who 
has insulted her would keep her from telling me all. But 
rest assured she will tell me enough to guard her from further 
insult.” 

“You think she will do that? ” 

‘ ‘ I am sure she will. ’ ’ 

“ Then prove her,” whispered Mrs. Elyard. “ If you are 
not afraid. Put her to the test.” 

“Yes,” said Bigland, shaking with excitement. “Eet 
her be tried and judged, here — now.” 

“ It ’s very easy, ’ ’ said Mrs. Elyard. “Wait — and watch! ’ ’ 

“ I can’t lay traps for my wife. It is an outrage to doubt 
her. I do not doubt.” 

“ Ah! You are afraid to know the truth.” 

“ Mr. Morton,” said Eady Sarah, stretching out her hand. 
“ I implore you not to listen to her.” 

“Yet you think as she does,” and Morton took Eady 
Sarah’s hand and held it for a moment. “ You all think she 
has broken God’s law. I think you love me, yet you make 
this monstrous charge,” and he turned to Mrs. Elyard. 
“ Very well. I am not afraid. We will put her to the test 
— the only test possible.” 

“No,” cried Eady Sarah. “ I can’t consent to anything 
so horrible.” 

“ It is out of the question , ” said Griffiths . “You must n’ t 
allow it. /can’t consent either.” 


The Ragged Messenger 


2 77 


“ You can’t consent ? Who is master here? It is for me 
to act, for yon to obey.” 

“ The old commanding voice! ” cried Bigland, exultingly. 
“That ’s how I like to hear you speak.” 

“ Lady Sarah, you mustn’t go away,” and Morton 
grasped her arm. “Stay here. Now let me think. Let me 
think.” 

He stood motionless, glancing about the room. There 
were dusky patches upon his cheek-bones that looked like 
shadows in the lamplight; his watchful eyes seemed strangely 
bright beneath the frowning forehead; his voice, though low, 
had a harshness and hardness that Lady Sarah had never 
heard before. 

“Let me think,” he said again, as he sat down at the 
writing-table and shaded his face with his hand. “You 
have all made the charge, you must all see the end of it,” 
and his hand dropped and moved restlessly among the papers 
on the desk. “Bigland, see that the servants have all gone 
to bed. Make sure that the young man has not come down 
again. But don’t let him hear you.” 

“No, master,” and old Bigland went to his duty with 
alacrity. 

“Lady Sarah, please turn out that lamp,” and he pointed 
to the big lamp left burning by Parrott. ‘ ‘ Softly, please — 
carefully. Griffiths, close that window and the shutters— 
very carefully. Slowly, without noise. Mrs. Elyard, help him. ’ ’ 

He looked round rapidly to see that he was obeyed, and 
then sat with downcast eyes and moving hand while they 
did his bidding. Then rising, he crossed the room cau- 
tiously, and knelt by the door of his wife’s room. 

When Mrs. Elyard turned away from the closed shutters 
he was still on his knees, looking toward her and beckoning 
her to come to him. The others watching heard the low 
whispers. 

“ Are you sure she has n’t heard us ? ” Morton whispered 
to Mrs. Elyard. “ Not caught any words to warn her ? ” 


27 8 


The Ragged Messenger 

“lam sure. I have been listening. She has n’t opened 
her door. I listened for that all the time.’’ 

“ Good. I can hear nothing. But I saw a gleam of light 
under the door.” 

“ It ’s the light in the lobby. It burns all night, they 
told me.” 

“ But the inner door is still closed ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“And this still locked?” and noiselessly he turned the 
handle. “Yes. Very well. Now I want to be certain that 
she has not heard us,” and he rose from his knees, and hold- 
ing Mrs. Elyard by the arm, drew her towards the others. 
“Listen. I will call to her — louder and louder until she 
hears my voice. Then, when she answers, I will say good- 
night. She is not likely to come out, but we shall hear her 
open the inner door if it be truly closed. How will that be 
— to make us certain ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Elyard, “but I am sure she has not 
heard us. ’ ’ 

“You understand what I mean, Griffiths. I ’ll have no 
loopholes in my test. I am not afraid to prove her thor- 
oughly. Stand over there, in the doorway, where you can 
see and hear. ’ ’ 

And he placed them on the threshold of the corridor, and, 
standing in the middle of the room, called to his wife, 
“ Mary, Mary, Mary ” : each time louder, each time waiting 
for an answer. “ Mary,” he called in ringing tones. 

“Yes.” 

The inner door opened. In the silence, Mrs. Elyard and 
Griffiths plainly heard it. Then the voice came from the 
lobby behind the locked door. 

‘ ‘ What is it ? What do you want ? ’ ’ 

“ Nothing. Only to say good-night. Good-night, my 
love. I am shutting up the house. Good-night, my 
love.” 

“ Good-night.” 


The Ragged Messenger 279 

He held up his hand warningly, to keep them motionless, 
until again they heard the inner door as it closed. 

Then, silently and carefully, he put out the reading-lamp 
and came and whispered to Mrs. Elyard, 

“You are right; she could not have heard us.” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Elyard, exultingly, “ I thought I was n’t 
mistaken.” 

He led them out into the corridor where old Bigland, re- 
turning from his round, reported that no one was stirring. 

“ Now, Mrs. Elyard,” said Morton, “ since you heard her 
fetch the note, you have been here on guard. No one has 
gone in or come out ? ’ ’ 

“ No.” 

“And nothing has occurred to alarm her, to put her on 
the scent of danger? ” 

“No.” 

“ You are sure of that ? Good. If she ever meant to act 
on this invitation nothing has happened to stop her ! Now, 
Mrs. Elyard, you must remain on guard — behind the draw- 
ing-room door, eh ?. Get a chair and sit there with the door 
ajar, eh? You ’ll contrive it wisely. You are used to this 
sort of thing. We can trust you to conceal yourself while 
you wait and watch ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“We shall leave you in darkness, but your spirit is 
staunch; you are not afraid.” Mrs. Elyard shook her 
head. “Then come,” and he grasped Lady Sarah’s arm. 
“ Griffiths, follow me. Bigland, put out the lamps in the 
drawing-room and follow us. We will go to the young 
man’s room and wait for her.” 

“No,” said Lady Sarah, trying to release her arm. “I 
absolutely decline to come.” 

“I am sorry, but we daren’t leave you. You would 
warn her.” 

“ Sir,” said Bigland. “Bowman, sir? Howshallwe ” 

“ I will answer for Bowman.” 


28 o 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Mr. Morton,” said Griffiths. “ I must protest ” 

“ It is too late to protest. If she comes, she is guilty. If 
she comes out of that door, Mrs. Elyard, don’t stop her. 
Let her go on.” 

“You may rely on me, sir.” 

‘‘Can we? I wonder. We all have weaknesses. We 
know God’s law, but we can’t keep it. Do you swear” — 
and, drawing Lady Sarah with him, he came close to Mrs. 
Elyard and scrutinized her face in the faint light from the 
lamp at the end of the corridor. “ Do you swear that you 
won’t relent — won’t allow some revulsion of womanly feeling 
to make you warn her ? Can you trust yourself? The heart 
plays strange tricks with us, Mrs. Elyard. Are you sure of 
yours? Will you swear that you won’t, at the last moment, 
try to save her from a disgrace worse than death ? It may 
come to you, what her feelings will be when she goes creep- 
ing to her lover’s arms, in the shame of her guilty love, and 
finds us waiting for her,” and he pulled the cross from his 
waistcoat, and held it high as the chain would let him. 
“ Swear by this.” 

‘‘I do,” said Mrs. Elyard, with intense earnestness. 

‘‘Ah! I knew we could trust you. Now, Mr. Griffiths, 
are you satisfied that the conditions of our test are sound ? ’ ’ 

“Yes. But I protest against ” 

“ If she comes, she is guilty ? Why don’t you answer ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ If she does not come, what is she? ” 

“ Innocent.” 

“ Good. I tell you she won’t come.” 


XXIV 


A T either side of the hanging curtains a shadowy twilight 
had slowly entered the silent room; and as it came, 
the shadows in the room had seemed to move to meet and 
blend with it. Then shafts of cold light, piercing the slowly 
moving shadows, had struck upon the red walls, and the 
night, lingering in the curtained room, had slowly crept 
away. Morton, sitting at a table, silent, rigid, unyielding, 
still held the watchers to their task. With the coming of 
the light he had begun to read. Resting his head on one 
hand, the other hand lying on the open book, he sat with his 
back to the others, immovable, inflexible of purpose, still 
waiting, still watching. At last he spoke, in a low harsh 
whisper, without looking round. 

“What’s the time?” 

Gri filths, sitting by the curtained window, looked at his 
watch. 

“ Half-past five.” 

“ Then the day has begun. Tet in the light of day.” 
Griffiths drew back the curtains, and a wide stream of 
cold light poured into the room. Above the stone parapet 
of the outer platform, the park-land showed itself half hid- 
den in a white mist; beyond, the beech- woods stretched 
green and bright; far-off roofs and windows of cottages glit- 
tered in the sunlight, and blue smoke rose high and straight 
from cottage chimneys. The working day had begun. In the 
unseen garden below the parapet, blackbirds and thrushes 
had been whistling and singing throughout the last two 
hours. 


281 


282 


The Ragged Messenger 

Morton closed his book and looked round. 

“ Well, are you satisfied ? ” 

“Yes,” said Griffiths. 

“What is she?” 

“ Innocent.” 

“ Quite certain of that ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Griffiths, “ who can doubt it?” 

“ Bigland, what is she ? ” 

“ She has n’t come.” 

“ Then she is innocent? ” 

The old man, looking dishevelled and foolish, moved un- 
easily beneath his master’s steady eyes. At last, waving his 
hand with a gesture of helplessness, he answered reluctantly: 

“Yes.” 

“ And you, L,ady Sarah ? You agree ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. How can you ask me ? ” 

“Then, my friends, our vigil is over. Vice walks by 
night, I think, not in the searching light of day. Mr. 
Griffiths, we need wait no longer, need we?” 

“No.” 

“Our task is bravely done,” and he rose. “We may 
sleep sound,” and he glanced from one to another, smiling, 
as he moved about the room. “ But we won’t look at our- 
selves in the glass. This sort of work is not beautifying to 
mind or body.” 

Lady Sarah looked at him with unutterable reproach in 
her white, drawn face. 

“ It is cruel of you to have forced me ” 

“ I know it,” and he took her hand, “ but you must for- 
give me. ’ ’ 

“ I feel that I never can forgive you,” said Tady Sarah, 
sadly, but resolutely. “ For the first time I know that you 
have done wrong.” 

“ No. The end has justified the means. Believe me, I am 
pained by your pain — grieved to have dragged you down to 
the world’s level. But we are all citizens of the world, and 


283 


The Ragged Messenger 

have our hateful duties to perform. We are called to serve 
on juries and do God’s work — to give and to take away life — 
and we dare not refuse. The jury you have sat with to- 
night has been trying a human soul,” and he laughed 
harshly. “I compliment you all on your attention during 
the proceedings, and I shall give directions that your names 
be removed from my list so that you be not called upon to 
serve again.” 

“ Don’t talk like that.” 

“Why not? The prisoner is acquitted. Come, Lady 
Sarah, your last duty. Go down and summon my wife. 
Relieve our sentinel. Tell Mrs. Elyard the court has risen,” 
and he led Lady Sarah to the door and opened it. “ Tell her 
to rouse my wife and bring her here. I want her here — at 
once. Do this errand for me, Lady Sarah, and return, please, 
without delay.” 

And he stood by the open door, watching Lady Sarah go 
down the stairs. 

“Sir,” said Griffiths, “if you don’t require my presence 
any further ” 

“ I do,” said Morton, — “ wait,” and he went to the door 
of the bedroom, and stooped with his ear to the lock. “Big- 
land, come here. Do you want to hear something curious ? ” 
His follower came to him. “ Listen. Do you hear ? ” 

Bigland stooped to listen by the door. 

* ‘ What do you hear ? ’ ’ 

“ Still walking about. He has done that all night.” 

“ What does it sound like to you, old friend? Curious? 
Is n’t there something strange in the sound of those foot- 
steps ? What is it like ? ” 

Bigland looked up into his master’s face, inquiringly. 

“ Like a caged beast ? ” 

“ A caged beast ? No. They are not driven . Their steps 
fall free and light enough, to and fro, in their narrow cells. 
And they pause and listen now and then; listen for the un- 
caged wind and the rustle of leaves in the open air. And 


284 


The Ragged Messenger 

their pacings may cease when they like. They may lie 
down, and sleep, and dream that they are free. listen again.” 

“ He keeps moving. It is just the same sound.” 

“ Yes. The sound of a man driven by his sin. You don’t 
know what it is to be driven by the sin that will give you 
no rest.” 

‘‘Yes, yes. That ’ s it. He is driven by his sin.” 

“ He made the sin and it was his servant. Now it is his 
master. Discovery has given it the whip hand. If we could 
see through the closed door, perhaps we should see it — a 
red-eyed imp, sitting on his shoulders; flogging him along; 
driving him on, as it will do now forever.” 

“ Forever ? ” 

‘‘Yes. He will never know peace again. He is a poor, 
weak thing, too weak to have sinned at all. No strength to 
fling off the driver now, and trample it down as you and I, 
or Mrs. Elyard, would. It will drive him on.” 

“ It will drive him out of this house? ” 

‘‘Yes, out of this house, across our pleasant meadows, and 
away to the ends of the dusty earth, till it drives him over 
the ragged edge and he and his burden fall together.” 

“ Into the bottomless pit ? ” 

‘‘Of course. Where else should they fall?” and he 
laughed once more, as he turned to Griffiths. “Bigland 
stands late hours better than any of us. You see, want of 
sleep has left his quick apprehension uninjured.” 

He went to the window, looked out, and then came back. 

“Now, Bigland, open the cage, and bring forth our wild 
beast.” 

“ Unlock the door ? ” 

“Yes. Unlock the door,” and Bigland obeyed him. 
“ But step aside, man, stand back,” and the old fellow drew 
back hastily. “ He may spring out and devour us. Is he 
crouching for his spring?” Then, with a change of tone: 
“Come here, please.” 

Bowman came from the other room. 


The Ragged Messenger 


285 


“ I have sent for my wife to explain matters to her. Stand 
there, please, and be careful not to interrupt me. You un- 
derstand, you will not address her or me — whether she tries 
to palliate your offence or no.” 

“ I have nothing to say.” 

Lady Sarah, returning, took a chair near the open door, 
and they waited in silence until presently, Mrs. Elyard lead- 
ing the way, ushered Mrs. Morton up the stairs. 

She had dressed hurriedly, wrapping herself in a loose 
dressing-gown; her dark hair hung in loops over her ears 
and lay in an untidy coil upon her neck; her face looked 
white and scared, and the large eyes moved in frightened 
wonder as she stood on the threshold. 

‘ ‘ Why have you fetched me ? What do you want with 
me?” 

“ Listen,” said Morton, “ and you shall hear.” 

“ I don’t understand.” 

“ Hush, I tell you. Be silent and listen. You will soon 
understand. Come forward, Mrs. Elyard. You have 
played your part well, I know’ — Don’t be dowmcast.” 

Mrs. Elyard advanced from the door a little way, looked 
at him, and lowered her eyes again. Her hard face was set, 
the thin lips drawn tight; but, beneath the folds of her cloak, 
her fingers twitched now and then, and the mouth twitched 
sympathetically as she stared at the carpet in the discomfiture 
of her baffled rancour. 

“What do you mean?” said Mrs. Morton, breathlessly. 
‘ ‘ Why are you all here ? Why don’t you tell me?” 

Morton held up his hand to silence her. 

“ Listen carefully. Don’t be agitated. We have all been 
busy to-night, but our task is over. I must tell you, as 
mistress of the house, why we have watched while you have 
slept.” 

“Why?” 

“This young man insulted you by declaring his guilty 
love. He wrote you a note.” 


286 


The Ragged Messenger 

As he spoke, she shrank back. 

“ It is not true.” 

“ Hush! It is sweet and womanly of you to try to shield 
him, but it is hopeless. His guilt stands confessed.” 

“ Confessed? ” 

“ He asked you to come to him in the dead of the night. 
But our friends were on the alert and they saw his infamous 
proposal — read it, you understand — before it reached you.” 

“ It is not true. It never reached me.” 

“ Be silent. I tell you, you cannot save him. Our good 
friends read the words that trumpeted his deadly sin. They 
saw that he was guilty, but they did more than that. They 
thought you guilty too.” 

“She is innocent,” said Bowman. 

“ How can I make you understand their thought ? ” Mor- 
ton kept his eyes fixed on the scared face. “ It is not a nice 
thought, but you must know it. Well, they thought that 
the burning lust and base desire that had swallowed honor 
and duty in him, had found their lodgment in your bosom 
too” — and he pointed to her breast — “ that the heart which I 
swore beat loyal and true was black with sin too vile to name. 
They told me that, so surely as the silence and the night 
came full and deep, you would do this man’s bidding; would 
come creeping forth to lie in his arms, till the gray flicker of 
dawn frightened you away. They told me you would do 
this, and they dared me to put you to the test by watching 
and waiting. If you came it was true. If you did not come, 
it was a lie. Would I put your innocence to infallible proof? ” 

“ I tell you she is innocent,” said Bowman. 

‘ ‘ I refused. I knew you were innocent. I had no shadow 
of doubt. If the whole world thought you false, what did it 
matter to me, who knew? I told them so; and the reply 
from this lady” — and, without moving his eyes, he pointed 
to Mrs. Elyard — “was an evil smile. Then I, too, began to 
think. These few, our friends, thought you false. But that 
means the world. Our little world, the only world that 


287 


The Ragged Messenger 

knew, thought j'ou false, and always that smile, like the 
ripple where a rat dives in a stagnant pond, would go widen- 
ing and spreading its evil circle round your life and mine, to 
show where the rat had passed. There are charges which 
can be disproved once or never — honored by a fair meeting 
and beaten down to the dirt they come from, or slowly 
crushed by the contempt that disdains to meet them. This 
was just such a charge. Chance and Choice and the Devil 
working like three foul spiders had woven a web about you 
while you slept. You could shake it off in an instant, or 
wait till the wind of heaven blew it away. Then I thought: 
Why not? We had nothing to risk, you and I.” 

The dark scared eyes watched his face as closely as he 
watched hers; when he moved a step towards her, she 
shrank from him as though involuntarily. 

“ Well, at last, I told our good friends to lay their trap; to 
prove you how they liked; to turn their knives by scraping 
my diamond; to find out, by what arts they pleased, the cer- 
tainty of your purity and innocence. So see,” — and he 
swung his arm in a wide sweep — “our little world looks 
weary and ashamed, but satisfied. You have stood the 
ordeal, and the ugly smile has vanished. If our little world 
will not look you in the face, shame and not suspicion is the 
reason,” and he moved towards the door. “So off you go, 
my good friends. Good-night and pleasant dreams,” and 
he stood by the open door bowing and smiling. ‘ ‘ I have 
yet to speak to the man who has tried to injure me. Griffiths, 
see Mrs. Klyard safely on her way.” 

Mrs. Morton and Bowman exchanged a swift glance, and 
he laid a finger on his white, dry lips warningly. 

As Tady Sarah passed out, Morton laid his hand very 
lightly on her hair and whispered, “ Forgive me.” She did 
not look at him or show that she was aware that he had 
spoken and touched her. 

He stood looking after them for what seemed a long time, 
then, slowly closing the door, he turned. 


288 


The Ragged Messenger 


“Well?” 

His face had undergone a startling change. It was like 
a badly modelled gray mask — heavy and expressionless; 
only, through the sharp-edged holes in the mask beneath the 
thick eyebrows, the human eyes burned fiercely. Shrinking 
from him as he advanced, his wife drew back, until stopped 
by one of the cabinets with the pretty china, and leant 
against it breathless and panting. 

“ Well! I am waiting for your thanks. Why don’t you 
speak ? Is your tongue weary of its lying work ? Give me 
his note of invitation.” 

“ I got no note,” she gasped. 

“ Aha! Not weary yet. Where is his invitation ? Where 
is his note of warning — to put you off ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Did n’t you know I was a clairvoyant. There, in your 
bosom, crushed against your treacherous heart, I can read 
the writing: ‘Don’t come. We are watched! ’ Give it me.” 

He seized her in his arms; dragged open the bosom of her 
dress tearing the silk and then the cambric; snatched the 
crumpled papers from their hiding place beneath the stays; 
and cast her from him. 

“Woman, I wrote it myself; pushed it under your door, 
and gave you the signal to lie close as a fox when the hunt 
is out. Come — see here.” 

He beckoned to Bowman, and then held the papers before 
him. 

“ Yours — and mine. ‘ My darling, you must come to my 
room to-night. It is quite safe.’ ‘ Don’t come. We are 
watched.’ I forged that, under their eyes, and they never 
saw. Did the Devil guide my hand well — for she never 
guessed — or was it admiration of your powers of fascination 
and success in love that reversed your rule, and made the 
master write so like his pupil? Why don’t you answer? 
Why don’t you praise me? Can’t you see I have striven 
hard and am greedy of praise? Not a word ? . . . Then 


289 


The Ragged Messenger 

go. Be warned, and go while there is time,” and he went 
towards the door. “ You have walked with Death to-night. 
His arms have been about your neck,” and he turned to his 
wife. “ His bony hands have fondled the face you love, 
toyed with his silken hair, strained and held his soft form 
with an itching of desire stronger than you have ever felt. 
See here.” 

The white nickel flashed and glittered as he stretched out 
his hand to show the revolver to Bowman. 

“ See! The barrel to tear the life out of you with a rend- 
ing sword of flame, or the butt to beat you down at my feet 
— to batter that face of yours into a red pulp for my foot- 
stool. Barrel or butt, barrel or butt — Death has wooed you 
all the night through — craved for you, yearned for you, 
fawned upon me to give you to him. If anything had gone 
wrong, if my scheme had miscarried, if they had proved her 
guilt and my disgrace, you would have sped hot-foot to hell. 

. . . But the Devil has held his own, and kept me from 

blundering.” 

He threw up his arms and dropped for a moment upon one 
knee as though in prayer. “Master of Evil!” he cried 
hoarsely, “I have been your slave to-night! Have I done 
your work well? A sign!” and his eyes rolled wildly. 
“ Give a sign, my Master, to gladden your new found ser- 
vant. . . .” 

“Now go,” and he threw open the door. “ Go forth and 
let there be no looking back — no signals to her. Just now 
when you motioned to her to be cautious, I nearly killed 
you after all. Don’t tempt me again.” 

White and silent the young man slunk from the room, and 
passed down the stairs out of sight. 

Morton closed the door; locked it; and came towards his 
wife. She cowered down upon the floor, and gave a cry of 
terror as he took her by the wrist. 

“ What are you going to do with me ? Not kill me?” 

“ Kill you ? No,” and he put away the shining revolver. 

19 


290 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ No. Look at you, make much of you, wife of my bosom! 
Study the shifty eyes and trembling mouth that the Devil 
has left me in exchange for Heaven. Feel the puny arms 
that have pulled down the structure of my whole life and 
hurled me down God’s narrow path to the open gates of 
Hell, between the setting and the rising of the sun.” 

“ Let me go. Let me go. I am afraid of you.” 

“ Afraid — why? Am I not all that a husband should be 
— simple and easy, slow to suspect, quick and clever to 
shield his wife from discredit and disgrace ? ’ ’ 

“ Let me go.” 

“Hold up your face,” and with his hand beneath her 
chin he turned the white face upwards, and gazed down with 
wild fierce eyes. ‘ ‘ Let me see how well the Devil can pick 
his servants. Yes! You are well chosen to do the work. 
I was weary of my lonely toil, longing for the touch of a 
woman’s hand in mine, pining for a helpmate in my task, 
when he set you ragged and shivering in my path. Well 
chosen, my Master — a harlot with the face of a saint! It 
was the love that begins in pity that served your turn.” 

“Oh, let me go.” 

“ But why did you do this thing ? What was your guerdon 
to be? What reward could you hope from my undoing? 
Answer me.” 

“ I was starving. I wanted money.” 

“Money! I had none. But I would have fed you and 
sheltered you and sent you on your road. My heart was 
open to the sisterhood of frailty. Why should you swear 
you were chaste ? Why spin a ladder of lies to reach what 
I gave to all ? ” She was struggling to get free, dragging 
with all her strength upon the iron hand beneath her chin. 
“Answer me, give me the truth now! Was it true — what 
you swore to me that night — that you had been no man’s 
slave— that you had suffered till then without sin? Was 
that true, I say ? ’ ’ 

“No, no!” 


291 


The Ragged Messenger 

“A wanton— always a wanton! But why should you 
cleave to me? How could I pay you for your body and 
soul — I who was nearly as poor as yourself? Why did you 
stand before the altar with me, when your price could be paid 
in the market-place ? Answer me. When you stood beside 
me and said you would be my wife, was there no gleam of 
love in your heart ? ’ ’ 

“No.” 

“Some human feeling — gratitude to the hand that had 
given you shelter — warmed your cold breast to give me what 
you had sold to others ? ’ ’ 

“ I tell y ou I married you for your money.” 

“Untiring tongue! Will you never weary of lies? My 
money came to me after you had pledged yourself. You 
thought me poor as yourself when you spoke the word.” 

“ I knew that the money was coming. Loose my hand, 
and I ’ll tell you the truth — and then let me go. You must 
be blind not to have guessed. I was with your cousin when 
he died.” 

He dropped her wrist, and recoiled from her. 

“ The dead man’s mistress! ” 

She staggered to her feet and stood leaning against the 
cabinet. The coil of dark hair had fallen; her open gown 
showed her bare breast and the torn chemise; his hand had 
brought a wide red mark upon the white face. Haggard, 
breathless, panting, desperate in her terror, she confronted 
him now with the sudden defiance of a weak, wild creature 
driven to bay. 

‘ ‘ He was cruel to me — but I bore it— longing for his death 
— and the money he had sworn I should have. Then at the 
last he cheated me — I had seen his will — and the lawyer who 
made it told me I had nothing to hope for — that it was all to 
go to you — his mad cousin, as he called you. . . .” 

“Go on.” 

“ I was penniless — in despair — half mad with rage. And 
I came to London to hunt you down — to throw myself at 


292 


The Ragged Messenger 

your feet and beg for mercy — for some part in the treasure 
that was coming to you. . . .” 

“ Why did n’t you do this? ” 

“ I waited, and as I waited, I took hope. When I found 
what you were like, I knew you would help me when I told 
you the truth. You did n’t know of the money. It would 
always be time enough to tell my tale, and if I could make 
you care for me a little, so much the better my reward when 
the time came.” 

“ Blind fool — blind fool! ” 

“ So now you know the truth. I never cared for you. I 
was always afraid of you — And then — when our horrible life 
began, and I found myself cheated again — tricked and 
cheated once more — I hated you. The cursed money was 
there mocking me — mine in name, but held from me by you. 
I tell you, I hated you worse than that miserable old man.” 

“The truth at last!” 

“ So now you know. Let me go. Let me go away with 
him. You can divorce me and be free.” 

He seized her by both arms and forced her upon her knees. 

“ Till death do us part. Say it after me. Till death do us 
part.” 

“Let me go away with him. You frighten me.” 

“ Never again as man holds a woman — in love; but as hus- 
band holds his wife — by God’s bond, I ’ll hold you to the 
end. I ’ll loose you to no other.” 

She was writhing and twisting in his grasp, and he swung 
her to her feet and held her before him. Then he opened 
her arms and pushed them back, so that she fell face for- 
ward on his breast. 

“Let me go — for God’s sake.” 

“For God’s sake, no. You and I are one till death do us 
part. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man 
put asunder. ’ ’ 


XXV 



YEAR and a half had passed. The House of the 


i\ Woman of Samaria was built and open to the sister- 
hood of frailty; and Morton was living in it as chaplain of 
the House. 

At Talgarth such changes had been made that the sleepy 
countryside was still rubbing its eyes in wonder. To the 
dwellers on the soil it had seemed as though the end of all 
things had come. After a thousand years of peace, the tramp 
of the invading hosts; the land in a summer night taken and 
held by the conqueror; the old lords fled or banished with- 
out striking a blow in defence of their people; their castles 
razed to the ground or turned into barracks; their pleasaunces 
staked out for camps; proclamations pinned to cottage and 
barn doors commanding peasants and farmers to go on with 
their work as though nothing had happened, but henceforth 
to pay tax and tribute to the new emperor of all the realm. 

As Colbeck, on a December afternoon, drove along a nar- 
row lane at the bottom of the park, the driver of the rough 
country gig pointed with his whip across the bare grass land 
to where the long low house had stood. 

“ They mean to get the copper on the dome, sir, before the 
bad weather catches ’em!” 

“Yes,” said Colbeck, absently, “ they are losing no time.” 

Above the untouched garden, on the site of the demolished 
house, a vast pile of red brick now rose from a cage of scaf- 
folding. Two great brick towers were already high above 
the main structure; and between, half covering the clean 


294 The Ragged Messenger 

wood- work of a wide dome, the newly placed copper glittered 
faintly in the weak sunlight. It was the hall, chapel, and 
the central block of the immense college that would take an- 
other two years to complete in its entirety. 

A mile behind him, Colbeck had left another Home or 
Hospital, similar in construction to the original Home by the 
village. All Talgarth’s land and the three adjacent estates 
had been purchased; all three desirable mansions on this 
other land had been converted into further Homes ; and all 
were thronged with children. Already, the resident nurses 
were counted by hundreds; the resident doctors by tens and 
twenties; the permanent staff of work-people by regiments 
of fifty. The full scheme was steadily going forward to its 
completion; the children’s colony was fairly established with 
thousands of child-colonists; but in all the expanding organi- 
zation, at desk, or by bedside, as ruler of ward or kitchen, 
the first and original matron was not to be seen. Mrs. 
Elyard had retired from the service with a gratuity and a 
grievance. But, as she said herself, she was not surprised. 
Once again, she had lost her place by doing her duty. 

‘ ‘ I suppose, sir, ’ ’ said the driver, as the gig rolled silently 
over the dead leaves in the lane, “that Mr. Morton has 
made up his mind not to come and look at it till it ’s all 
finished. ’ ’ 

“ Mr. Morton has many things to attend to,” said Colbeck, 
absently. 

This driver was an honest, sober sort of fellow whom Col- 
beck preferred to the man who usually drove him on his 
round of inspection. He was talkative, but intelligent; tak- 
ing the keenest interest in his task, and proud of acting as 
occasional charioteer to the governing physician. In truth, 
the work was now running so smoothly, under a medical 
staff so carefully chosen and so thoroughly in accord with 
the governor’s general plan, that the presence of Colbeck 
was perhaps no longer necessary. But it seemed that as yet 
he had no desire to relapse into the position of the distant 


2 95 


The Ragged Messenger 

controlling mind, the governor who rules his province from 
afar; and most days saw him at Talgarth, and the hired gig 
in waiting to carry him from point to point of the domain. 

“ It was me, sir,” the driver told Colbeck, “as drove Mr. 
Morton and his lady to the station on the morning they 
went away. We did n’t none of us think what was coming 
then, sir.” 

And, not for the first time, he described the growing con- 
sternation of the village during the next few days as the tid- 
ings came that the property was sold; that the servants were 
going or had gone; that the furniture vans were on the road; 
that the home of the Talgarths was to be wiped off the face 
of the earth; that the house-breakers were arriving by the 
evening trains; that the work of destruction would begin at 
dawn. 

“You never see anything like the way that old gentleman 
went on, sir — Mr. Bigland, sir. He was left in charge, I 
take it — You remember, sir. I reckon I can say I saved his 
life, I did, for Mr. Bigland ” 

“Did you? How was that?” 

“Me and some of the village chaps used to go up, odd 
hours, and watch ’em at it. You never see such a dust. 
We ’d stand there and come away in half an hour like so 
many millers or ghosts. Wonderful sight to see — the way 
them London fellers cracked up the old place — like as if it 
had been made of paper. That old Mr. Bigland used to be a 
fair figure of fun, shouting to ’em and ordering ’em about. 
They never took no notice of him — but laugh. To watch 
him, you ’d think he wanted to pull the house down with 
his own hands and teeth — dancing about and shouting. 
Well, one day they nearly dropped a wall on him. They 
give us all the office, but he, if you please, come back and 
stood foolish-like — dazed. I had him out of it — but on’ y just 
in time. I don’t think he properly understood. Anyhow 
he did n’t thank me. Funny old gentleman! Have you 
seen him lately, sir? ” 


296 The Ragged Messenger 

“Yes, not long ago. He is with Mr, Morton.” 

“And the lady, sir? You’ll excuse me asking, but 
there ’s been a talk of her being dead. That ain’t right, is 
it, sir ? ” 

“ No,” said Colbeck. I have not heard of her death.” 

“But she ain’t along of him, sir, up in London? They 
are separated like, ain’t they, sir? ” 

“Yes,” said Colbeck. “Mrs. Morton is not with Mr. 
Morton in London.” 

“Ah,” said the driver, “ you ’ll excuse me mentioning it, 
but of course it ’s common talk down here.” 

Dr. Colbeck pointed ahead of him. 

“ Take the turn to the station. I am going by the three- 
forty.” 

The driver, glancing at the doctor’s thoughtful face, 
showed his intelligence by asking no more questions. 

Colbeck was thinking of the telegram that had been 
brought to him half an hour ago, and presently he drew it 
from his pocket and looked at it again. 

“ I think you are wanted in Lennox Street. Sarah Joyce.” 

Nothing more. Word for word as he remembered it. Not, 
“/want you in Lennox Street”; but, “You are wanted.” 
His face was very thoughtful as he folded the paper and put 
it back in his breast pocket. 

They rattled down the village street, past the sleepy-look- 
ing shops and the empty pavements; and as they approached 
the path that led to the park by the post-office, Dr. Colbeck 
saw with surprise Mr. Griffiths coming through the gate. 

Colbeck stopped the gig, got down, and dismissed it for 
the day. 

“ Halloa, Griffiths! ” he said, in friendly greeting. “You 
are indeed a stranger. What brings you here? ” 

They had not met since the June night when they strolled 
together upon the long terrace before the vanished house. 
As they walked to the station, Griffiths explained himself. 
It seemed that he had been at the House in Lennox Street 


The Ragged Messenger 297 

earlier in the day — not upon business, but merely taking the 
liberty of paying a call upon a respected friend. 

“You understand, sir, that my business relations with Mr. 
Morton have practically ceased — except in one matter. With 
the placing of the last of those pensions, my power to be of 
any real use came to an end. But I am bound to Mr. Mor- 
ton by other ties — I have a strong regard for Mr. Morton.” 

“ I am sure you have,” said Colbeck, cordially. “I saw 
that at once.” 

“In point of fact, Dr. Colbeck — Mr. Morton has had a 
very great influence on my life — but I need not trouble you 
with all that.” 

Colbeck looked at the detective in doubt. 

“I ought not to ask, if you say that. But you don’t 
mean an influence derived from his — religious opinions?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Really. I should hardly have supposed that.” 

“I don’t mean to say that I am a regular church re- 
ligionist,” said Griffiths, and he coughed and cleared his 
throat. “ I am not. But I mean his message — his teaching 
in its widest bearing — well, I don’t think any one could come 
under ^/influence, and think of it all, without being affected.” 

“ No,” said Colbeck, after a silence. “ Not as considered 
on its humanitarian side.” 

“No,” said Griffiths, looking straight in front of him. 
“ Or on its other side.” 

Colbeck walked on in silence, for a few moments lost in 
thought. Accustomed all his life to sudden glimpses of the 
unexpected in men’s minds, that swift lifting of the curtain 
that shows in a flash ere it falls the hidden mystery of the 
seemingly commonplace, he nevertheless wondered. An ex- 
policeman! The tracker of the stern realities of life in a 
moment joining the shadow-hunters, the street-guardian on 
his narrow beat roving from the fixed point into the dream- 
wonder of a world beyond the grave! Wonderful! Most 
wonderful! 


298 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ I, too, have the highest regard for our friend. How is 
he getting on ? I have n’t seen him for some weeks.” 

But Griffiths had not seen Mr. Morton to-day. He had 
seen Lady Sarah, and had gathered that Mr. Morton was 
perhaps not in as good health as usual. Her ladyship had 
said that she herself and some of the sisters were anxious 
about their chaplain — afraid that he was not very well. 
Lady Sarah had in fact appeared very anxious, but was 
hoping to see Dr. Colbeck, who no doubt would relieve 
everybody’s anxiety. She had telegraphed to Dr. Colbeck, 
but was in some fear lest her telegram should miss him. 
Griffiths, having nothing to do that afternoon, had said that 
he would run down to Talgarth and make sure that Dr. Col- 
beck was informed of her wish. Her ladyship had seemed 
relieved on hearing this. 

“ It was kind of you to come.” 

In the train, as they jogged townwards through the fast- 
falling darkness, passed every now and then by one of the 
expresses — a streak of gaslit windows, a meteor of rumbling 
wood and humming iron, flashing along the middle tracks — 
they talked of the stupendous House. 

One of the sisters had told Griffiths that visitors were ex- 
pected this afternoon — newspaper men, members of Parlia- 
ment, and lawyers, the sister thought. She knew that some 
more lawyers’ work was on hand, because the council cham- 
ber was to be made ready as though for a meeting of the 
trustees. It was another trust to be created, Griffiths opined 
from all he had heard. Some new endowment! Was Dr. 
Colbeck to be a trustee, he asked. 

“ No — I refused.” 

“Did you?” 

“I don’t approve of it — I told him so plainly. This 
House of the Woman of Samaria is amply dowered. As one 
of the trustees of the original gift, I told him that it was too 
well provided for already. Besides, it is outside reason — this 
winding up of his estate as he calls it.” 


The Ragged Messenger 


2 99 


“ Outside reason f” 

‘ ‘ I mean overdoing it. He is giving away his last penny. ’ ’ 

“Dr. Colbeck — you know that I don’t ask from an im- 
proper motive. He is often under your eye — have you 
observed anything to suggest ” 

“ To suggest what ? ” 

“ Well — that his mind is in a dangerous state ? ” 

“No,” said Colbeck very seriously. “What leads you 
to think that?” 

‘ ‘ I must say that I notice a marked change. Others 
notice it.” 

“ Beginning lately? ” 

“ From the time she left him.” 

“Ah.” 

“You know he acted very strangely at Talgarth — during 
the occurrences which led up to the separation. He acted 
and talked very strangely then and afterwards.” 

“He was hard hit by her desertion. But what did the 
strangeness amount to ? ” 

“Well, at first, a sort of mocking way of treating every- 
thing — most unlike himself. He seemed to be inwardly 
making fun of everything — no matter how serious.” 

“The strong man’s way of meeting adversity — laughing 
off his trouble. ’ ’ 

“You really think so ? ” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“I am very glad.” 

“ You see,” said Colbeck, thoughtfully — and, although they 
were alone in the carriage, he leant forward and spoke in a 
low voice. “ The mental condition of a man like our friend 
is from a professional point of view a subject of absorbing — of 
infinite interest. I have thought of it from the beginning 
of our friendship. It is not normal — far from it. There is 
of course — from our point of view — one salient delusion — or, 
let us say, dominant idea. Perhaps you are n’t even aware 
of it. He guards it close — only lets it be inferred. But, 


300 


The Ragged Messenger 

then, after all, how common are such dominant ideas — or 
delusions! Is not divergence from the normal in one direc- 
tion, normal really ? One man thinks he ought to have been 
made a judge, another that he could reorganize the navy, 
another that he has made some marvellous invention and 
that the nation ought to supply the million required to build 
a working model — another — like Morton, for instance — 
thinks something wilder still. A good fellow, people say in 
such cases, but keep him off his subject. Don’t let him 
bore you with his idee fixe. It is unchanging with such men, 
you understand, one delusion; not dozens of wild fancies, 
changing day by day. That would be a very different 
matter. 

“ I have never talked to him about it — though, frankly, 
as a student, I have longed to do it — to get to the bottom of 
it — to lay bare his secret thought. But I have always re- 
frained. I tell you there is no man I have a stronger regard 
for — and I respect you for your anxiety. But look back 
and recall your first impression of him. I know what mine 
was. Now,” said Colbeck with a grave smile, “I ’ll give 
you the scientific aspect of the case in the plainest terms. 
Our experience tells us that when a man has been as mad as 
Morton for a number of years, he never gets any worse. The 
leaning tower of Pisa, you know, has stood firm while many 
an upright shaft has bit the dust.” 

“ But there have been no bad earthquakes at Pisa. His 
domestic upset ? ’ ’ 

“ He ’ll get over it. He is fighting his trouble bravely.” 

‘ ‘ I suppose he never speaks to you about her ? ’ ’ 

“Never. Miserable woman! Who could have suspected 
it? But of course you knew. You did the best you could 
to keep the knowledge of her wretched secret from him.” 

“ What else could I do ? ” said Griffiths. “ I would n’t 
know it myself — for certain , but I lived in dread of her ex- 
posure. It seemed to me almost incredible that she escaped 
detection. I think I ought to say, perhaps, that all that 


301 


The Ragged Messenger 

time I was not receiving money from Mr. Morton — I mean, 
payment for my pretended search. That would not have 
been right, of course. ’ ’ 

“I am sure that all you did was right.” 

“Thank you,” said Griffiths. “I assure you I have 
often thought since that you might have misjudged me, sir, 
if you ever gave the matter consideration. And the thought 
was unpleasant to me — very unpleasant. But how did you 
first learn the truth ? ” 

“ It was something Farley told me. Some photograph he 
had seen puzzled him, and set me thinking.” 

“Yes. I understand.” 

“ I challenged Morton, and he told me it was so. Poor 
fellow! He showed great reluctance in speaking of it; and, 
to this day, I don’t know the real circumstances of their 
parting.” 

“You know, of course that we had a terrible to do down 
there — but no doubt you heard all about that from her lady- 
ship.” 

“ No. It is not a matter that I should speak of to Lady 
Sarah. I know of it roughly. That canting brute of a ma- 
tron made mischief, and Mr. Bowman was dismissed in dis- 
grace. But afterwards — in London — I saw Morton and his 
wife together in Bedford Square, and the next thing I heard 
was that she had disappeared, and that you and he were 
both hunting for her.” 

“ It was a miserable business. It seemed, down there, 
that our suspicion of her had recoiled on our own heads. 
He seemed to have unshaken confidence in her. But, in 
London, I believe— Parrott told me— he watched her as a cat 
watches a mouse— never let her out of his sight— hardly ever 
went out; and, when he did, took her with him— was always 
with her, Parrott said, till the night she stole out of the house 
and got clean away— and joined her lover.” 

“You traced her then ? ” 

“ No. But I found him — months afterwards— alone, and 


3° 2 


The Ragged Messenger 

starving. It seems as if young men of his calibre have a 
natural bent towards starvation. The pity is that his career 
was ever interfered with.” 

“ Upon my word, I almost agree with you.” 

“Well, the tendency was checked again. He was sent 
off to Australia to begin life afresh — funds being provided by 
some anonymous friend.” 

“ Do I know that friend ? ” 

“You can guess.” 

“ What did Bowman say of her? ” 

“ He could tell me nothing. She had left when the food 
ran short — which ought n’t to have surprised him. All this 
time Mr. Morton was himself seeking for her — wandering 
away all over the kingdom on any vague chance and then 
hurrying back to London — wearing himself out with useless 
efforts. I think he was employing other detectives — well, 
I know he was. His confidence in me had been shaken. 
And they led him the usual dance of your private inquiry 
agents — sharp as razors for their fees, and dull enough I 
daresay at all the rest. Professional jealousy, sir. That ’s 
the snarl of the jealous old dog of the C.I.D. kennel! Any 
how, I know they took him to Paris again and again — to 
Berlin, to Vienna,” and Griffiths shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I only saw him at intervals,” he went on. “ But it was 
then that I fancied I saw the change — oh, yes, a marked 
change, Dr. Colbeck, it seemed to me. The old fire gone, 
sir — the look almost of a beaten man — great depression — and 
then outbursts; but weak outbursts. And preaching! It 
was gone — the old power. I heard him twice that autumn. 
It was painful.” 

“ He should not have tried to preach,” said Colbeck, “ I 
advised him not to. Public speaking and private worry 
can’t be successfully combined.” 

“ Well, I was glad enough when the House was opened 
and he went to it as chaplain. It seemed to me at first as 
if he had quieted down there — and I thought I knew why. 


303 


The Ragged Messenger 

Not that he had really given up hope of ever seeing her 
again.” 

“ If she were in want don’t you think she would make 
some application for assistance ? ’ ’ 

“ I doubt it. I do her that justice. I think she would be 
at her last gasp before she craved help from her husband.” 

“I can tell 3 t ou one thing for certain,” said Colbeck, 
thoughtfully. “ Very little real want and deprivation would 
bring her to that final breath. Hers was not a constitution 
to stand much strain, and it had been impaired by her 
previous life.” 

“ Perhaps it has come to that already. Freedom, though 
he does not know it. But he does not think so. Every time 
we meet, it is the same thing: ‘ Have you found her? ’ Just 
as in the old days. And now he suspects that I am still 
keeping something back from him.” 

‘ ‘ But you are not ? ’ ’ 

“ No. This time I am utterly at fault. How can I find 
her? I don’t want to, but I honestly try. I dread to come 
upon her, but I go on looking — searching for her among the 
ranks of the wretched army whose deserters go there . For 
it is among them that I should look for her by now. And he 
knows it too, though he does n’t say so. It is that idea that 
has made this House more and more the ruling thought of 
his life. He asked me once, ‘ If she needed me, would she 
not seek me here ? ’ and I told him, not till she had lost all 
hope — not till the very last.” 


XXVI 


I N the darkness of the narrow streets the House towered 
above one like a stone fortress of a bygone age, round 
which the town of sordid hovels had clustered for protection. 
But the light from the street lamps fell upon the still white 
masonry of the base, upon the clean carved stone, and the 
unsullied polish of the thick oak door — a fortress renovated, 
made spick and span for wandering tourists in a modern 
city. There were carriages in the street, and a big motor- 
car shaped like an omnibus; footmen outside the door, and 
loafers from the little public-house at the opposite corner 
who had seen the visitors go in were lounging about to see 
them go away again, or making themselves officiously useful 
by standing at the heads of horses while coachmen retired 
for a minute to the public-house bar. 

An oak panel slid back and showed a woman’s face be- 
hind narrow iron bars. Colbeck and Griffiths were recog- 
nized; a bolt was withdrawn; and the heavy door opened on 
silent hinges. 

In the lofty corridor, Sister Ethel Maud told them that the 
evening service was just beginning; the chaplain was going 
to give them an address; Eady Sarah was in the chapel; Mr. 
Carpenter and his guests were not attending the service, but 
were now going round the building. 

Sister Ethel Maud and other sisters hurrying along the 
corridor rather late for chapel, were dressed in the uniform 
of the House — brown serge, white linen cuffs, deep collars — 
the costume of a hospital nurse without the white cap; and 


The Ragged Messenger 


305 


hanging round the neck of each was a metal chain that car- 
ried a small metal cross. The sisters, as they were called, 
were of four classes: Nursing- sisters, for the infirmary; 
House-sisters, for the indoor work in the House and the 
night shelter; Visiting-sisters, older and more redoubtable, 
who went far and wide visiting the fallen in the brief day- 
hours when they were most accessible; and Street-sisters, 
who, discarding the uniform, went out into the streets by 
night to attack their task of personal hand-to-hand rescue 
work. Sister Ethel was a trusted house-sister now on duty 
in the important post of door-guard, with a little room to sit 
in, a desk and table with the printed forms of her guard 
upon which every entrance was registered, a telephone and 
speaking tubes for her hourly reports, and half-a-dozen 
electric bells to ring a summons and sound its answer from 
room to room of the staff, whenever she needed support or 
assistance. 

Would the gentlemen take any refreshment, Sister Ethel, 
smiling and polite, wished to know. There were tea and 
coffee in one of the waiting rooms. 

Mr. Carpenter, it seemed, was giving something in the 
nature of a party in the finished House that he had built. 
Adding to the small company here on business, he had 
gathered together some of his fine ladies and important rela- 
tives, with one or two members of Parliament, and the young 
literary gentleman who was collecting materials for a maga- 
zine article to be entitled, “The Eife-work of Herbert Car- 
penter.” In the oak-lined parlor — so lofty that it looked 
small — oak tables had been placed side by side to form a 
buffet, with Mr. Carpenter’s own servant in charge of tea- 
pots, pati de foie sandwiches, the daintiest cakelets and bon- 
bons that a well-known Bond Street shop could supply, 
champagne, whisky, apollinaris, lady-like liqueurs, etc. 
Gold-headed canes and umbrellas and very shiny silk hats 
stood upon the deep window ledge in front of the brown 
holland blinds ; rich furs and feathers encumbered the 


306 The Ragged Messenger 

leather-seated chairs; and trailing on the floor from an ermine 
stole — final indication of the careless splendor of Bertie’s 
friends — was a chain of gold and turquoise and pearl. 

Colbeck and Griffiths glanced in through the hospitably 
open door, and passed on towards the heart of the building 
— the great hall, and the council chamber. 

To-night the usual silence in which the House lay hushed 
behind the massive walls and double windows was invaded 
by strange sounds and echoes. The noise of doors shutting 
reverberated like the report of a gun fired at a distance, as it 
travelled along the stone-flagged passages and up the stone 
flights of stairs from the gigantic basement; the footsteps of 
the visitors multiplied themselves into the tramp of a buried 
army; a deep rumbling came from the men’s voices and a 
shrill banshee cry from the laughter or exclamatory wonder 
of the ladies. But echoes — the nightmare of the most bril- 
liant architects — were a sore subject with Mr. Carpenter; and, 
showing his House to the brilliant and deeply interested com- 
pany, he studiously ignored all stone voices, and affected not 
to hear when the magazine writer spoke of them as “ weird.” 

Down in the stone cellars, the strong room and the safe — 
as matters not designed by the host — had proved provokingly 
attractive. Old Mr. Norman, the solicitor, and his clerk, 
smilingly good-natured in the presence of so many affable 
ladies of title, had explained the mechanism, swinging the 
iron gate that turned on the electric light in the iron-cased 
room again and again until their arms ached. Here, in iron 
racks and tin boxes, were kept all the important papers of 
the House — records, account books when filled, estimates, 
specifications, plans, etc. “Deeds? Oh, no,” and Mr. Nor- 
man smiled. Those were kept in that great safe, built into 
the masonry itself behind the room. It could only be opened 
by three of the trustees, each with his key, co-operating at 
the lock’. It would be opened before the evening was over, 
probably; to put away the last deed of all that was waiting 
now, upstairs in the council chamber, for execution by the 


The Ragged Messenger 307 

last of all the trustees— Mr. Gavell. Yes, that tall, cadaver- 
ous man! — the well-known author or essayist. 

But the cellars were done with at last, and, suddenly, Col- 
beck and Griffiths turning at the end of the corridor found 
themselves involved in the party — fifteen or twenty people 
following their leader, with stragglers already showing 
incipient boredom, inclined already to grumble at their 
leader’s slowness and his smiling, but resolute, determina- 
tion that, having begun to show his House, he would show 
it thoroughly. 

“ Surprised to see me here, I suppose,” said Lord Patring- 
ton, gloomily. “ Kate persuaded me to come, and I wanted 
to see for myself — once for all. Ah, how do, Mr. — er — 
Griffiths.” 

“Well,” said Colbeck, very coldly. “You are seeing. 
What do you think of it ? Monumental, eh ? ” 

“A monument of folly!” said Lord Patrington, as, with 
hands in his coat pockets, he strolled on. 

Mr. Hammick, M.P., had been transported to a heaven of 
pompous bliss by the extreme affability of the famous and 
beautiful Lady Melton — the Marchioness of Melton as he 
would call her when speaking of this pleasant encounter. 
Large, rustling, splendid, with a full-blown loveliness of 
forty luxurious years, Lady Melton, as she walked by his 
side, talked to him in the absolute freedom, the tone of 
equality and good fellowship which, habitually, she adopted 
in talking to everybody — chauffeurs, railway guards, the 
girl behind the shop counter. He had been introduced a 
minute ago, and she had not listened or tried to catch the 
name. Had he dropped behind for a moment and then re- 
joined her, she would have accepted him as somebody else 
and gone on prattling as graciously. 

“Oh yes, quite so, colossale /” Lady Melton was saying, 
“ But, my dear man, don’t go on as though the thing was a 
new idea. If you want to know the truth the whole bag of 
tricks is a plagiarism from poor me,” 


3°8 


The Ragged Messenger 

Mr. Hammick smiled in rapture at so much affability. 

“Yes,” the marchioness continued, “/started the whole 
movement over three years ago. Founded a club for them 
— poor dears! We had a ball and were goin’ strong — on 
paper, don’t you know, still, but meanin’ to open any day, 
when up comes Bertie Carpenter with his little lot — goin’ to 
spend a mllion over it. So poor I retired from the competi- 
tion,” said Lady Melton, with an engaging smile. 

Mr. Hammick’s eyes were roving to find an observer of 
his happy situation. 

“Tell me,” he asked confidentially, “ is not that the Karl 
of Patrington ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ I thought so. But he has aged since I last met him.” 

“ Old bore! ” said Lady Melton. “ His daughter is matron 
here — secretary, or something funny.” 

Mr. Carpenter, as they marched along, was contenting 
himself by pointing at the doors without stopping. 

“Lady-doctor’s room. Matron’s room. Another ma- 
tron’s room. Another matron’s room. Visiting-sister’s 
room. Head street-sister’s room. Lady Sarah Joyce’s room. ’ ’ 

“There,” said Lady Melton. “I told you so. I don’t 
wonder she ’s come to live here — with that old bore at 
home.” 

Lord Patrington, with frowning brows and angry eyes, 
slunk by the door and would not look at it. 

Presently they were all standing in the great hall, staring 
by order with upturned eyes at the elaborate fan-tracery of 
the vaulted roof. 

“ Reminds me of the chapel at King’s,” said some one. 

“Or Westminster Abbey,” said somebody else. “More 
like that.” 

The architect turned quickly, a gratified smile on his face. 

“ Quite right, Lady Sophia. You are absolutely correct. 
We have been more ornate than King’s.” 

The stone pavement was beginning to make their feet sore. 


309 


The Ragged Messenger 

The high heels tapped noisily as the ladies hastened their 
pace; mutely refusing to strain their eyes again with a study 
of the clerestory; not caring to walk into the vault of either 
of the fireless hearths; without question accepting the de- 
scribed phenomenon of stars to be seen as through a telescope 
in the mouth of the immense chimney shafts. But the 
gigantic picture that covered half the mural space at the far 
end of the hall — because it was an after-thought, something 
extraneous to their host’s design, not devised or executed by 
his brain and hand — enchained their attention, captivated 
their vagrant fancy. 

It was the famous and much engraved picture of the Italian 
Righetti’s Christ — at rest at last. Hawked all round the 
world, shown with tricks of light and screens — a peep-show 
of waning popularity — nearly sold at Brisbane, nearly sold 
at Toronto, yet never finally sold — but a home found for it 
at last! Something of a peep-show still it seemed, in its 
frame of knotted beams so strangely like the painted timber 
hanging between great swinging shutters that were draped 
with black and white shrouds of curtains, with a row of 
concealed footlights to be reluctantly switched on by the re- 
luctant showman Bertie. 

“ Oh! ” and the visitors emitted little cries of pleasure, as 
they gazed upon the terrible presentment — the gaunt and 
broken-down ascetic hanging in his lifelike torment; the 
crimson horror of blood upon the grayish olive face. The 
high heels tapped and the silk under-skirts rustled as, mov- 
ing from side to side, they tested the impossibility of escape 
from the stare of the tortured eyes. 

Mr. Carpenter slightly shrugged his shoulders and ex- 
plained tolerantly: 

“ It justifies its existence here. Serves its purpose, you 
understand. The violent — if utterly inartistic — appeal to 
the emotions. Go back to the door we came in by. . . . 

Well, imagine you have done so,” and he switched off the 
light. “Now, some poor soul — half- rescued — shrinking, 


3io 


The Ragged Messenger 

doubtful, but with it in her thought — comes in at the door 
and sees” — he switched on the light — “this” — and he 
dropped his voice. “ One of our sisters told me she had seen 
them lying here, where we stand, with their foreheads on the 
bare stone. But shall we go on?” and he turned out the 
light again. 

They passed through the refectory, with the three long 
oak tables that to some one suggested the table d'hbte room 
of an old-fashioned Italian inn. They made nothing of their 
host’s music gallery; but evinced interest in the tables; 
were intensely interested in the subject of the daily fare; 
craved for menu cards, if cards were used, to take away 
with them. 

Mr. Carpenter, in a confidential whisper, explained to one 
or two ladies something of the arrangements. As soon as 
they arrived, the segregation of the poor wanderers by the 
head-sisters — four classes: those for the infirmary; old 
offenders; girls; the rescued, who did not sit at meat with 
irreligious comrades! And, of course, the night shelter — 
a thing quite apart whose chance occupants never came in 
here for food. The menu really a matter of no consequence! 
Good? Oh, yes — excellent! all that could be desired. No 
cards used in the House — except the cards of the visiting and 
street-sisters; just a card with a cross on it, the address of 
the House, and two or three words. “Come to us,” or 
something like that, and perhaps the sister’s name added in 
pencil. Nothing else! 

“ No. I could not very well give you any of the cards. 
You will readily guess,” said Carpenter in his confidential 
whisper, “ that a certain reticence as to details is maintained 
— a certain delicacy due to our poor guests. No need to take 
the public into one’s confidence as to system of the work. 
For instance, I shall tell him nothing about all that,” and 
he indicated the clever young writer, on his knees by a table 
leg, busily garnering material for his article. 

But Mr. Hammick, staunch to his marchioness, and push- 


The Ragged Messenger 


3 1 1 

ing within range of the whisper, did not appear to grasp the 
necessity for the reticence. 

“You are going to show us the infirmary wards — the dor- 
mitories, or cubicles; and the — er — the inmates. ’* 

“ Oh, no. Strictly against our rules.” 

“ Really ? ” said Mr. Hammick. “ You don’t mean that. 
Surely that would be rather like Hamlet without the Prince 
of Denmark ? ” 

“I invited you to see the House” said Mr. Carpenter, 
severely. 

But Mr. Hammick was not abashed — the sense of the 
meeting was with him. 

They peeped into the kitchen and the empty supper- room 
of the shelter block and came back behind the gallery of the 
chapel and down stone steps again. As they descended, the 
vibrating swell of the organ-music rolled about them; and, 
for a moment, while an unseen door opened and closed, they 
heard girls’ voices singing. 

It was too cold to go outside, but, standing before a nar- 
row, mullioned window, they looked into the dark cloisters. 
Through the columns of the cloister they could see, across 
the garden court, the black wall of the chapel and the glitter- 
ing colors of the lower part of a stained-glass window. 
Glowing and glittering in the darkness of the night, it looked 
like the luminous picture of a magic lantern thrown upon a 
black screen. As they stood and peeped, again the waves 
of the buzzing, rolling music floated faintly to their ears. 

“I suppose,” said Lord Patrington to Griffiths, “when 
Morton gets ’em in his chapel he don’t let’em out in ahurry.” 

“ Oh , no, ” said Griffiths, “ it is quite a short service. But 
to-night he is to give an address”; and he looked across the 
garden regretfully. 

Of his sex, only Mr. Bigland was privileged to take a seat 
in the empty and unlit gallery of the chapel. 

Colbeck, disengaging himself from the sight-seeing current 
as speedily as possible, had gone on to the council chamber 


312 


The Ragged Messenger 

to wait in quiet for Lady Sarah. The council chamber was 
an oblong octagon in shape, and here was another of Mr. 
Carpenter’s vaulted ceilings; but low in pitch and simple in 
scheme — compared to the richness of that above the great 
hall — with lessening octagons repeated to the ridge-lozenge 
or crown. In one of the two biggest sides of the room there 
was a long window divided by deep mullions, latticed panes 
between of plain and tinted glass set in gilt-iron tracery. 
This window was a favorite with the architect, and by day- 
light it gave one a pretty outlook to the cloister and a seg- 
ment of the fish-pond. In the opposite wall was the open 
fireplace; deep and high, a massive cavern of decorated 
stone, with a handsome brass curtain across the top of the 
cavern — an extra ornament designed and fitted by a “ smoke- 
expert,” which the architect always looked at with gloom 
and distaste. In a panel of carved oak above the fireplace 
there was the only picture that the room contained. Seated 
at the wide table were Mr. Norman and his clerk, diving 
into the leather bag and the tin box that stood by their 
chairs, laying out papers, scattering pink tape, pushing 
about the pads of fresh blotting-paper that lay before each 
of the thirteen chairs, rearranging the nearest inkpots — squat 
towers of white metal reflected in the polished oak board as 
in water, looking like white forts in a brown sea — and almost 
fondling the smooth yet crackling parchment as they opened 
and spread their deeds, or admired the clean fresh seals, the 
bright new stamps. 

“ No need,” said Colbeck, sitting by the fire, “to inquire 
what all this means — the operating table of the law. Who 
are your new trustees ? ” 

“Lord Melton, that Mr. Clement Gavell — and Mr. 
Griffiths, the detective.” 

“ Griffiths! No. Is that so? He did not mention it.” 

“I doubt if he knows it. It was not our suggestion. 
Gavell, I believe, made a personal application, but I am not 
sure if ” 


313 


The Ragged Messenger 

One of the oak doors opened, and Mr. Carpenter and his 
party arrived to banish peace. 

“ This is the council chamber once more.” 

‘‘Ah. Then we have been right round,” said some one 
with a sigh of relief; and, wearily, some of the fine ladies 
and fine gentlemen sank down upon the leather-seated chairs. 

‘‘You must write your names in the visitors’ book,” said 
Carpenter, pointing to a ponderous volume on a high stand; 
and he turned to and fro among his guests. “ This room is 
a faithful reproduction of the chapter house of an early 
Italian monastery. I took infinite pains to make it perfect.” 

“ No doubt,” said Mr. Gavell. 

“ My stone-carving was roughed here, and sent to Verona 
to finish.” 

“Yes? Very interesting,” said a lady. 

‘ ‘ That little door, with its scrolled lintel, gave me im- 
mense trouble.” 

“Really?” 

“ It leads to the refectory.” 

“What,” asked Mr. Hammick, pompously, “was your 
trouble ? The smell of the food ? ” 

“ No — to subordinate it to my scheme — to make it decora- 
tive without challenging attention.” 

“ But you succeeded. I should never have noticed it.” 

Mr. Hammick was pushing his way to the visitors’ book 
just in front of Lord Patrington. As he made his entry he 
recited it aloud: “ Charles Edward Hammick, number sixty 
Portman Square, member of Parliament.” Then, promptly 
laying down the pen, he held out his hand. 

“ How do you do, my Lord. I hope you are well. But 
your looks answer for that.” 

“ Oh — er — How do,” and Lord Patrington glanced down 
at the page. “ And how are you, Mr. — er — Hammick ? ” 

At the table Mr. Norman was crackling his parchment and 
smoothing it jealously, unwilling to relinquish it into the 
hands of Mr. Gavell, who was stooping over the table and 


314 The Ragged Messenger 

rather annoying the old solicitor with technical questions. 
But Mr. Gavell, as a great authority on charity organization, 
perhaps thought he knew what he was speaking about, and 
had a right to express an opinion. He continued to talk of 
a Incense in Mortmain. Considering the precariousness of 
human life, with a trust of this presumably lasting character, 
connected with a building of apparently imperishable ma- 
terial, he candidly confessed, again and again, that he 
thought one could not be too careful — that one could not 
over-estimate the intricacy of these necessarily delicate 
problems. 

“All as simple as A B C,” said Norman, irritably. 

But Mr. Gavell went on talking about the Statutes of 
Mortmain. He had assumed that the transfer of the real 
property would have taken the form of an Assurance, to be 
enrolled, etc., etc. He had not thought that, under the Acts 
of 1888 and 1891, a charitable institution of this scope — 
rescue-work and so forth — would have been exempted, etc. , 
etc., etc. 

“ Yes, yes,” said Mr. Norman, very irritably. “ But really 
we don’t want Counsel’s opinion now. . . . You are not 

still practising at the Chancery Bar ? . . . No. I thought 
not. . . . Not a barrister at all ? Just so. Author and 

Essayist! Exactly. . . . Then we are all in order” — 

and he coughed rather loudly, to attract attention and silence 
some of the nearer chatterers. “ Here we are, gentlemen,” 
and he looked round. “ This, gentlemen, is the Conveyance 
and Assignment. . . . Yes, Mr. Gavell, only one deed, 

surprising as it seems to you,” and he pointed with his pen- 
cil. “ Recital of the investments — I need not read. The real 
property consists solely of ground rents, which we shall col- 
lect half-yearly together with the rents of all the other trusts. 
The personal property assigned is comprised in what are 
commonly termed ’ ’ — and he looked round with a smile — 
‘ ‘ gilt-edged securities. ’ ’ 

As he spoke even chatterers at a distance became silent. 


3i5 


The Ragged Messenger 

All listened now. The wonderful money was passing. The 
thought of it silenced the most frivolous. In imagination 
they saw it as the old gray solicitor talked about it; sheaves 
of notes of the high denominations exhibited as curiosities by 
managers in bank parlors; bundles of the crisp white inimit- 
able paper; mounds of newly minted sovereigns being shov- 
elled away by copper scoops preposterously bigger than they 
had ever seen upon a bank counter. 

“Now if two of you gentlemen will be good enough to 
witness the two signatures. There,” and he pointed. 
“John Morton. Our client has performed his part. His 
lordship was obliging enough to favor us this morning in 
Piccadilly ere he started for Rugby,” and Mr. Norman bowed 
and smiled across the table to Lady Melton, as who should say: 
My clerk had not then the honor of your acquaintance or he 
would certainly have begged to s eeyou as well as his lordship. 

“ Now Mr. Gavell, if you please. In front of the seal. I 
deliver this as my act and deed. . . . Say it please. . . . 
Thank you. Now if you are so kind,” and he handed the 
pen to a witness. . . . “Occupation? No. No. Of 

course not! Just state your rank instead. . . . Thank 

you. This begins to look like a page from an autograph book,” 
said Mr. Norman, urbanely. “Now, Mr. Griffiths. . . . 
Where is our other trustee! Oh, Mr. Griffiths, will you ” 

The detective’s heavy and usually stolid face had flushed. 
As he stooped at Mr. Norman’s elbow he spoke in a very 
low voice. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” said the solicitor. “ Did n’t he tell you ? 
Then he forgot. He instructed us that he was quite sure 
you would consent to act.” 

“ He has made me very proud,” Mr. Griffiths mumbled as 
he took the pen. ‘ ‘ Honor — so great — unexpected — Not 
forget — to my dying day.” With a very red face, he de- 
livered his act and deed, and two members of the Lower 
House witnessed the signature. 

“ So there we are,” said Mr. Norman. 


“ Your duties will 


3 1 6 


The Ragged Messenger 

be light, gentlemen. Simply to hand over all moneys re- 
ceived to the governors of the House of the Woman of Sa- 
maria for the time being. To write some bankers’ orders now; 
and then two checks a year — if you do not instruct us to 
save you that trouble — really nothing more.” 

“Exactly. We shall not grudge our care in such a 
cause,” said Mr. Gavell. He was now looking over the 
deed studiously. ‘ ‘ There was some proviso — Let me see — 
when I first consented to give my services, mention was 
made of the remuneration for time and so forth — usual, as I 
understood — - — ’ ’ 

Mr. Norman pointed with his pencil. 

“You will find the gift of your services duly attended to, 
Mr. Gavell.” 

“ Quite so. Our friend insisted — a man of iron will, Mr. 
Norman.” 

“ So I have found. Or this deed would never have been 
drawn. I venture to say it is the most remarkable instru- 
ment you are ever likely to meet with.” 

“Why?” 

“Because by this our client denudes himself of his own 
free will of the last vestige of a colossal fortune.” 

“ We live in an age of munificent charity.” 

“But hardly on such a scale as this.” 

Mr. Norman was folding the parchment; the clerk was 
packing the bag; tongues were loosened. The wonderful 
money had passed. With it, as the chatter began again, it 
seemed had gone also the last trace of obsequious respect for 
the man who had let it go. Only now was left a wondering 
pity — tinged with contempt. 

“ Run away with by his hobby,” said Lord Patrington in 
gloomy disgust to Mr. Hammick and others by the long win- 
dow. ‘ ‘ And this is all he has to show for it. Queer taste! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I should say a man of poor taste. His house in Bedford 
Square indicated that,” said Mr. Hammick. 

“ Narrow but overbearing ideas, I fancy,” said Mr. Gavell, 


The Ragged Messenger 317 

“ A man impossible to lead! I remember be altogether pooh- 
poohed a scheme of mine.” 

“Now there, Carpenter,” and Mr. Hammick pointed to 
the picture above the fireplace — “ Nothing could be worse 
taste than that — to hang a poor copy of Cresset’s Mary Mag- 
dalene in this beautifully designed apartment.” 

‘ ‘ Don’ t you like it ? ” 

‘ ‘ Do you f Does it not derogate from ’ ’ 

“ Very garish,” said Mr. Gavell. “ It is not even a good 
copy.” 

“ No,” said Carpenter, “it is the original.” 

“ No. And pray,” asked Lord Patrington, “ what did he 
give for that ? ” 

“ I don’t know. It fetched seven thousand at the Brent- 
wood sale. He bought it by private treaty.” 

“ Well, I call that wilful waste of money,” said Mr. Ham- 
mick. 

“ The love of splendor run riot,” said Mr. Gavell. “ Dame 
Charity should walk in humble garb, not overladen with 
jewels and laces.” 

“Oh, that sort of thing,” said Lord Patrington, bitterly, 
“ is Morton all over.” 

‘ ‘ Reckless indulgence of his own whim ! ’ ’ 

“Look here,” and Lord Patrington drew the two men 
nearer to the window, and lowered his voice. “ This is a 
circumstance which came under my own observation. I 
vouch for its truth. An old friend applied to this man when 
he was at the height of his prosperity for the loan of a few 
paltry thousands, and he refused.” 

“No!” 

“ Laughed in his face— on two occasions. He was running 
headlong through his millions, but he could n’t spare a penny 
for an old friend.” 

“We are wonderfully and curiously made,” said Mr. 
Gavell. “The niggardly vein often runs side by side with 
the squandering habit.” 


318 The Ragged Messenger 

“Well,” said Mr. Hammick, pompously summing up 
everything with sententious philosophy, “he made quick 
work of it. The end of a great force in the land. Two years 
ago he could have shaken the City — held Capel Court in the 
hollow of his hand — had he acted under competent advice. 
And now we leave him — the, er — the salaried chaplain of an 
institution — the ruler turned into the servant.” 

“ Come along,” said Mr. Carpenter. 

He was marshalling his fine ladies by the open door. But 
now a burst of the swelling music rolled towards them. 

“Ah! That’s the voluntary,” and he shut the door. 
“ Service over. We ’ll wait here two minutes please.” 

Mr. Hammick had seized L,ord Patrington by the arm and 
turned him close against the window. 

“ Should we get a glimpse at the inmates from here? ” 

“Yes,” said Gavell. “ Surely some must pass along the 
cloister.” 

Another door opened. Tady Tollhurst and Tady Sarah 
came in, followed by old Mr. Bigland. 

“ Oh. What a number of them! ” said Mr. Hammick. 

“The supply won’t run short,” said L,ord Patrington, 
contemptuously. 

“ But did you notice,” said Mr. Hammick, when at last 
he turned from the window — “ did you notice that none of 
them seemed to have been marked out for their unhappy 
destiny by any particular comeliness ? ’ ’ 

“No,” said Gavell. “I have often observed that with 
surprise.” 

L,ady Sarah, leaving her aunt and crossing the room to 
Dr. Colbeck, passed by her father. He looked at her with 
gloomy eyes that did not seem to recognize her as an acquaint- 
ance. Colbeck opened the small door that had given the ar- 
chitect so much trouble, and left the council chamber with her. 

“You liked the service?” asked Carpenter. 

T ady Tollhurst was enraptured. She had been describing 
things to her friends in voluble excitement. 


3*9 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Capital! But oh, so high — all candles and flowers, girls 
singing and what not ! ’ ’ 

“ Beauty is our key-note,” said Carpenter. 

“But our poor friend! Not a bit in the picture — he 
seemed so out of place. Really eloquent when he spoke, 
don’ t you know — but a Baptist minister officiating in the 
Vatican! Is Patrington ready ? ” 

“One more minute. What did you think of the altar 
glass ? ’ ’ 

“ Too dark to see it properly, but Sarah sa3's Mr. Hayling 
has made it exactly like her. But I really wonder he has n’t 
taken it down, all things considered.” 

‘ ‘ Do you ? Come and look at this picture, and tell me if 
you trace any resemblance there.” 

“I ’ll tell you what,” said Lady Tollhurst. “I traced 
the resemblance in that dreadful thing of Righetti’s. He 
might have sat for it. He is wonderful. I always told him 
so. Most original man / ever met,” and she looked at the 
Mary Magdalene. “Yes, it is like her somehow. Poor thing!” 

“Like who?” asked Mr. Hammick. 

“ Mrs. Morton.” 

“His wife?” 

“Yes. I suppose that ’s why he bought it.” 

Mr. Bigland, standing in front of the fire, looked at the 
visitors with unfriendly eyes. 

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Hammick. “ Before she ran away 
from him, of course. A lamentable history, Lady Tollhurst. ’ ’ 

“ She was a friend of mine,” said Lady Tollhurst, coldly. 

‘ ‘ I doubt if you recollect me, Lady Tollhurst, but I have 
frequently had the pleasure of meeting you — Mr. Hammick.” 

“Oh, yes, of course.” 

“There was something about her,” said Mr. Hammick, 
“ which foretold what would happen.” 

“ There was a something,” Mr. Gavell agreed. 

“There always is something like that,” said Lord Pat- 
rington, “ about a pretty woman married to a bore.” 


320 


The Ragged Messenger 

“Was it known, ” asked Mr. Gavell, “where she went 
when she left him ? ” 

“ Over the ragged edge of the earth,” said Mr. Bigland, 
“ into the bottomless pit.” 

“ My goodness! ” 

They all turned and stared at Mr. Bigland. He was look- 
ing into the fire; rubbing his hands complacently, and, ap- 
parently, now unconscious of the presence of the visitors. 

“Into the bottomless pit,” said Mr. Bigland again. 
‘ ‘ Where else ? ’ ’ 

“ Come,” said Mr. Carpenter, again marshalling his ladies 
by the open door; and the fine company began to move, 
amidst a sudden chatter about cabs and carriages. 

Mr. Hammick was anxious to make his omnibus motor- 
car useful should difficulties arise. 

“ Are you driving, Tady Tollhurst ? ” 

“ Yes, unless Tord Patrington sent his brougham away. 
I came by the omnibus.” 

‘ ‘ My lord, I shall be most happy to take you and L , ady 
Tollhurst.” 

“You can give me a lift, too, if you like, Hammick.” 

“ And me! ” 

“And me!” 

Mr. Gavell scampered after the departing band, making a 
great noise upon the stone pavement, and calling loudly to 
his friend: 

“ Hammick! Hammick! You brought me here, remem- 
ber. I rely on you to take me back.” 


XXVII 


L ADY SARAH and Colbeck emerged from a short pas- 
sage into the dark music gallery of the refectory. Be- 
low them the hanging lamps lit up the white cloths upon the 
long tables, and showed the brown backs of the house-sisters 
as they laid the knives and forks for the evening meal. 
Passing through the gallery, Lady Sarah and her companion 
came out into one of the lofty corridors. It looked vault-like 
and mysterious now, a long cavern with a faint star of light 
at one end. 

“ I am so glad you have come,” said Lady Sarah. 

Colbeck led her towards the light, and they stopped be- 
neath it, in front of a high and narrow window. Beneath 
the window the carriages in the street stood waiting, and a 
very faint buzz and rattle of the big motor-car penetrated 
through the double casements. 

“ I am so glad — so very glad you could come,” said Lady 
Sarah again. 

Her low voice showed nervousness and agitation. She 
lifted her hand to her throat with a gesture that he knew; 
and, twining the long fingers in the metal chain that lay 
hid below the lace collar of her brown dress, pulled at it 
nervously. 

He took the hand in his and held the cold fingers im- 
prisoned. They were cold and they trembled slightly, as he 
looked at her attentively and kept the nervous hand for a 
time with a light, firm pressure, as a man holds a caught 

bird that must not fly away. 

21 


321 


322 


The Ragged Messenger 

“Tell me. What is it?” 

“Yes. I am so glad you have come. I ’ll tell you. I 
daresay it is nothing really. You ’ll laugh, perhaps. But 
I was frightened, and I wanted you. I wanted you — and I 
thought you would n’t mind.” 

Then “You are wanted” meant “ I want you.” For a 
moment the blood ran through his veins in a jo> r ous stream. 
For a moment he thrilled with the pleasure of it — in her little 
worry, whatever it might be, she had turned to him natur- 
ally. And the blood flowed smoothly, happily, from brain 
to finger-tips in the sudden ease after weariness, as of a tired 
man stretched in a warm bath. 

“ Now you are here I feel that it is nothing, but I was 
anxious about Mr. Morton — dreadfully anxious — this morn- 
ing. But it can’t be really anything — because he preached 
so well just now.” 

“ Tell me all about it.” 

As she told him he held the hand mechanically, and then 
released it. The nerve-passage had ceased to flash. The 
blood flowed away from his finger-tips. The good stream, 
flowing slower as it deepened, was filling the great thought- 
reservoirs; the sensory outworks, long channels, ducts, and 
little cisterns must feed themselves as best they could; the 
emotional man was there no more, only a doctor stood listen- 
ing as Lady Sarah told her tale. 

She had been walking up and down the cloister with the 
chaplain. He was running over the discourse which he 
meant to deliver in the evening, wanting to learn by her 
impressions the effect of the words. It was a rehearsal 
really — he going over his part slowly and carefully, sentence 
by sentence; she listening, making no interruptions. But in 
the middle of a sentence he had stopped — in the middle of a 
word she believed; and had stepped aside and stared with 
fixed eyes, as though he had suddenly made room for some 
one advancing to pass between them. And he had done it 
with a dreadful sort of smile as though surprised at the rude- 


323 


The Ragged Messenger 

ness of some one pushing through like that, and she believed 
that he had bowed as though in ironical politeness. It was 
impossible to describe it; but it was exactly the sort of thing 
one could imagine a malicious nurse doing to frighten a child 
— to pretend a ghost had been seen — to frighten the child 
into believing that she had seen the ghost also. It had 
startled Lady Sarah, made her heart beat, and almost taken 
her breath away: so much of the illusion had been conveyed. 

“ But before I could speak, he was going on talking as 
though nothing had happened. I believe he had picked up 
the same sentence. And then I could n’t have spoken — I 
was so frightened. I could see that he was unconscious of 
it all, and I thought it must be some sort of stroke.” 

‘ ‘ Did he stumble at all ? ” 

“ No. He walked on again — was walking on and talking 
again at once.” 

“ But when he seemed to lower his head — to bow — might 
not that have been a sort of stumble ? ’ ’ 

“ I can’t even say that he did bow. It seemed like that — 
oh, Dr. Colbeck, it was a sort of stroke, was n’t it? Is it 
something alarming? ” 

But Dr. Colbeck did not seem alarmed, only very thought- 
ful. He praised Lady Sarah for sending for him to reassure 
her, as he hoped he would be able to do; and he asked her 
many questions. 

She had, however, nothing more to tell him. The chaplain 
had concluded the rehearsal in the cloister, while she walked 
by his side in fear. Then he had gone about his work — 
writing, reading, talking to the dwellers in the House. She 
had told two of the head-sisters of her anxiety, without giv- 
ing any reason for it; but neither they nor she had observed 
anything further that could be called unusual. Among all 
the sisters there had been, of late, an anxiety with regard to 
the chaplain’s health — a feeling that things were not well 
with him; but Lady Sarah, although aware of the prevailing 
idea, had not talked with any of the sisters about it. Since 


324 


The Ragged Messenger 

the morning she had seen him half a dozen times. He had 
seemed perhaps more restless than usual and perhaps ex- 
cited; but no more so than might reasonably be accounted 
for by his premeditated address. And to-night he had spoken 
magnificently. 

“ He said the words as he had planned them, but they were 
better, stronger, as though inspiration came with the hour. 
Even Aunt Kate was touched. She cried, ’ ’ said Lady Sarah. 

“ And you did not remark any unusual pauses, or hesita- 
tions — any unusual violence ? ” 

“No,” said Lady Sarah, “I doubt if I ever heard him 
preach better.” 

“ Well, well,” said Dr. Colbeck, “ you must n’t be anxious 
any more. There is nothing in w T hat you have told me that 
ought really to surprise me — nothing that need necessarily 
alarm us — at all seriously.” 

“Oh, I am so glad! I am not anxious, now that I have 
told you. I feel that it was nothing, now that you are 
here.” 

“I ’ll see him and have a talk with him,” said Colbeck, 
still very thoughtfully. “ Come with me. I don’t want him 
to guess that I am playing the doctor, and of course we won’t 
speak of — what caused your anxiety. Really you know it 
may have been just nothing at all.” 

They went back to the council chamber, empty now of all 
the company except Mr. Bigland. The old fellow was still 
standing by the fireplace looking down into the low fire. 

“ Has Mr. Morton left the chapel yet ? ” 

“No,” said Mr. Bigland. “He is waiting till they are 
on the wrong side of the door — the right side of the door — 
the outside of the door, ’ ’ and he chuckled. “ I am to go and 
tell him when the gate-guard rings.” 

“ Tell him I am here, will you, when you go.” 

“Yes.” Mr. Bigland rubbed his hands, looked at Dr. 
Colbeck, and chuckled. “ This is what I like, Doctor.” 

“What?” 


The Ragged Messenger 


325 


“The work going on — cosy and comfortable, with no one 
to interrupt us.” 

“ Oh, indeed ? ” 

“ No more fine houses and fine ladies,” and he pointed to 
the table. “They ’ve got all they can. They ’ll leave us 
alone now. He and I together, like the old days.” 

“Ah!” 

“He was splendid to-night,” and he rubbed his hands 
again, then tapped his forehead. ‘‘All the clouds gone! 
His eyes like live coals and his old voice come back to him.” 

“Had it?” 

“ He did n’t go into the pulpit. Stood by the lectern and 
made the organ screen hum with his message,” and he 
opened his arms widely. “ ‘ Oh, come unto me — ye that are 
laden.’ Grand. It made me want to shout and sing.” 

A faint tinkling of the electric bells sounded from behind 
the stone walls — a signal ringing, two short tinkles, an in- 
terval, and a longer tinkling — answered immediately by 
similar ringings here and there about the vast building. Mr. 
Bigland shuffled out of the room. 

“ I am sure we should be wrong to alarm ourselves,” said 
Colbeck in a whisper to L,ady Sarah. “ His evidence cor- 
roborates yours. It may have been nothing at all.” 

Mr. Bigland soon returned, followed in a minute by 
Morton. 

“ Colbeck, dear old fellow ” ; and he shook hands. 

The hand was colder than it should have been; the eyes 
were not bright enough — anything but live coals now — the 
pupils too much dilated; the speckled iris not showing clear 
enough, like smoked glass, not like stained glass; the face 
was a bad color, too gray; the blood patches beneath the skin 
were not as high as they ought to have been, too dusty, 
not red enough; a downward line at each corner of the 
strong mouth was new, unexpected, out of place. So much 
Dr. Colbeck observed as he shook hands with almost care- 
less good-nature, and then turned to say good-night to Mr. 


326 


The Ragged Messenger 

Griffiths, who, after a brief interview with the chaplain out- 
side the chapel door, was now going. 

“Are you staying here to-night, Lady Sarah?” And 
Morton sat down wearily in one of the thirteen chairs by the 
big table. 

“Yes.” 

“What would they do without you? Good-night, 
Griffiths. Bigland, stir up the fire, it is cold ’■’ ; and he 
turned to Lady Sarah again. “Does your father still 
nourish anger ? Did he not speak to you to-day ? ” 

“ He never does. He says he never will speak to me — 
while I come here.” 

“What can we give our sister, Colbeck, in exchange for 
what she gives us? ” 

“I give nothing,” said Lady Sarah, “an empty, useless 
life.” 

“ No,” said Dr. Colbeck, resolutely. “ Never that.” 

Lady Sarah’s eyes as they turned quickly met his, and 
turned again quickly. 

“ The work you have found for me here is the only sort of 
thing I could do,” she said cheerfully. “ I am really useful 
here, am I not? ” 

Morton was looking at the polished surface of the table, 
tracing an invisible pattern with his forefinger. He looked 
up after a pause with a slight start. 

“You are all in all to us.” 

“Then please don’t talk,” said Lady Sarah, with a smile, 

‘ ‘ about my giving up things for the work I love, or I shall 
think you want to get rid of me and put some one more 
efficient in my place.” 

“ No fear of that,” and Morton smiled also. “ Not till we 
dismiss one of our consulting physicians.” 

“ Meaning me?” 

As Morton spoke he had looked round, and had seemed to 
see that Colbeck had been watching him intently. He got 
up and walked away from the table. 


32 7 


The Ragged Messenger 

“Bigland, my friend, you are a bad guardian of a fire. 
We want wood here. It is a cold evening.” 

“Yes, yes. More wood.” And Bigland shuffled away 
and soon returned with a probation-sister — a young woman 
of humble status, not in the House uniform as yet, on trial 
as a worker. She brought a bundle of sticks and some small 
logs; and, going down on her knees, attended to the failing 
fire. 

“ The wood ’s damp,” said Bigland. 

“It ’s the fault of the fireplace, Mr. Bigland,” said the 
young woman. “ It don’t draw — only smoulders.” 

Morton had been walking about the room restlessly. 
Suddenly he spoke. 

“ Colbeck, don’t look so glum at me.” 

“ Do I look glum ? ” 

“Yes. Because I am free at last. I have fairly shifted 
my burden. The weight is off my shoulders forever.” 

“ Well, you know my opinion.” 

“You pretend to think me foolish.” 

“ Pretend ? ” And Colbeck smiled good-humoredly. 

“You don’t really. You both think me wise — wise be- 
yond the wisdom of men.” 

“Not a bit of it,” said Colbeck, still smiling; and his 
voice assumed the light, good-natured tone of one disagree- 
ing with, but not really blaming, a wayward child. “ I can’t 
answer for Lady Sarah. I assure you / think you are very 
wrong — well, that it would have been wiser to keep some 
substantial funds in hand.” 

“What for?” 

“Emergencies. Personal wants. Some sudden call. Why 
should you rob yourself of all power to help yourself or 
others in an hour of need ? ” 

“You forget. I have amply provided for myself.” He 
had strolled away again and was standing by the window. 
“ I am perpetual chaplain of this House. Neither governors 
nor council can shake me off. It is so nominated in the 


328 


The Ragged Messenger 

bond. Through good and evil report. You have to cleave 
to me, to keep me in ease and comfort in my beautiful 
House.’ ’ 

The young woman on her knees had turned from the fire 
and was listening, motionless. 

“ Nothing but death can shake me off. Were I to go rav- 
ing mad, you would have to give me my padded room be- 
neath this roof.” And he turned and looked out of the 
window. “ In sickness and in health, you cannot cast me 
off.” 

The young woman rose from her knees and whispered to 
Mr. Bigland: 

“ Oh, dear, he gives me the creeps when he talks like that !” 

“ Pooh, pooh,” said Mr. Bigland, in a whisper of gratifi- 
cation, and he puffed out his cheeks. “ That's nothing. 
Hear him by the organ screen, my girl.” And they went 
away together to have their suppers. 

“For better, for worse, in sickness and in health,” said 
Morton, in a low voice. 

“Oh,” said Colbeck, cheerfully, “we have no fear of 
your health breaking down.” 

“All last night and to-day,” said Morton, as he crossed 
the room to the fireplace, “I have been thinking of my 
money — my beautiful glittering hoard — the golden wand 
that the fairies gave me — and the way I have wielded it. 
You know what I have done with my wand ? ” 

“Yes.” 

He was looking into the fire. Colbeck, by a movement 
of the eyes and lips, had told Lady Sarah to answer. 

“ Nothing — less than nothing.” 

‘ ‘ How can you say so ? ” 

‘ ‘ What have I done with the cursed money that I should 
hoard it now f ’ ’ 

His voice had in a moment become harsh and loud. He 
turned fiercely towards Colbeck. 

‘ ‘ I tell you it drives me mad to think of. I have had my 


The Ragged Messenger 


329 


treasure and wasted it. The one thing in this world worth 
buying was close at hand, and I grudged the price. Poor 
mad fool! I could have bought her love and I grudged the 
price.” 

“ My dear fellow, don’t agitate yourself. The past is dead. 
Don’t think of it.” 

‘‘My love cold and dead! Yes — yes! See here,” and 
with his foot he stirred the fire, and kicked away some logs. 
‘‘The fire is almost out, yet there ’s plenty of fuel. Ah, 
ha!” And he laughed harshly. ‘‘See! Our architect is 
not at fault. The chimney is ninety feet high, with a fur- 
nace blast,” and he kicked the logs again and laughed more 
loudly. ‘‘See. Roaring, blazing! That’s my love — while 
the fuel lasts.” 

“ You must n’t dwell on it,” said Lady Sarah. “ Think 
of your work — your preaching — your message.” 

‘‘What should I preach? What message, except de- 
spair?” He struck his forehead with his clenched fist, 
and, as he moved away from the fireplace, continued with 
increasing violence, with steadily increasing excitement. 
“ Oh, the Bishops were right. The mad parson had no new 
thing to tell. They did well to close my mouth. Deception, 
self-deceit! ” 

Lady Sarah’s face was very white, her lips trembled, and 
her hand was at her throat. There was fear in her eyes as 
she looked at Colbeck appealingly. Again he told her by 
signs to answer. 

“No,” she said. ‘‘Oh, no — your words have saved souls.” 

“What can the words have been, when the speaker has 
failed to save himself? What could the light be when the 
messenger sank in the darkness? ” 

“ You must not say such things. Think of the work.” 

“Self-deception, vanity. God knows what I thought my- 
self then — but I know myself at last. A messenger of grace 
indeed ? Poor fool! ” and he laughed more loudly than be- 
fore. ‘ ‘ Do you know she hated me ? She told me so. Hated 


330 


The Ragged Messenger 

me for jealously guarding my mountain of dirt. Was 
learning to hate me — not at first — day by day. If I had only 
understood. My poor dead love! I tell you, had I guessed 
what was coming, I would have beaten out my golden pieces 
to pave the road to Hell for her feet and mine. I would 
have melted my treasure to build a golden image of the 
Devil and worshipped it night and day, to win her love.” 

“ Be calm. My dear fellow, be calm.” 

“ And she would have been mine. It was in my power to 
have her love. I let it slip. . . . Come back to me, my 

lost love. Come back ! Come back ! ’ ’ 

“ My good Morton.” 

“And she will come back. Am I not waiting for her? 
Surely she must know. I stand here, sometimes, looking 
out through these stone walls and I see her. Not as she 
was, my God, but as she is. I tell you, Colbeck, it passes 
self-delusion. I see her haggard face — and hollow eyes 
which always turn away from me — and I speak to her: Have 
no fear. Come back to me! She won’t hear. She shuts her 
ears with her poor wasted hands, and struggles not to catch 
my prayer. But she will hear, Doctor. Sooner or later she 
will hear me, and yield to the love that can pass through 
stone walls and bolted doors.” 

“Don’t think about her,” said Colbeck, very gently. 
“Don’t deceive yourself. Surely this is the last place she 
would come to.” 

“ The last place! That ’s what Griffiths says. ‘ Not till 
she has tried all else will she come to you.’ ” 

And he sank upon a chair by the table as though ex- 
hausted by his violence, and buried his head in his hands. 

Lady Sarah, very white of face, obeyed Colbeck’s grave 
eyes, and came and laid a trembling hand upon the chap- 
lain’s shoulder. 

“ I am so sorry for you. But — you must n’t — grieve for 
the past. You must be like yourself. You must be brave. 
You must forget your own grief.” 


33i 


The Ragged Messenger 

“Yes,” he said in a low voice, without looking up. “ I ’ll 
be brave. That ’s what I used to say. A Messenger should 
be brave.” 

It seemed that the light hand upon the shoulder calmed 
and soothed the nerves after the stress of the emotional out- 
burst. 

“Yes. I ’ll hide my weakness — I ’ll seem brave,” and 
pushing back the chair he sprang to his feet and began to 
pace the room. 

“See,” he said, stopping and looking at them. “You 
may trust me now. No other eyes but yours — no prying 
eyes — Why, wha — wha — what ’s this f” And L,ady 
Sarah, deadly pale, her trembling hand clinging to the chair, 
saw him open his arms wide to the height of his shoulders. 

“ What ? Am I f-f-flying again ? Col — Col — Col — Don’t 
you see? Col — Colby! Look! My new Master! ” 

His eyes had become fixed; he was staring straight in 
front of him, and pointing with an outstretched hand. Then, 
as Colbeck sprang forward, he stepped aside, as though mak- 
ing room for some one to pass; seemed to trip; uttered a 
horrible, inarticulate cry; and, without an effort to save 
himself, fell forward upon the stone floor in a fit. 


XXVIII 


HERB had been no service in the chapel for nearly a 



i week. The chaplain was ill — lying in bed in the 
chaplain’s room. The chaplain had met with an accident, 
it was said; had fallen, slipped on the chapel steps and been 
carried by Dr. Colbeck into the council chamber; or, as some 
said, had fainted after the fatigue of the last service and 
tumbled from his chair in the council chamber itself, whither 
he had gone to rest. He had cut his forehead and bruised 
the eyes. Mr. Bigland had seen him once or twice, and had 
told the sisters that his master was doing fine. Nevertheless 
the sisters wondered and whispered. Reading her ladyship’s 
face, they saw anxiety; at all hours of the day, at night even, 
in the middle of the night, sisters had seen Dr. Colbeck 
passing to or from the chaplain’s room. Their chaplain, the 
sisters whispered, must be really, if the truth were known, 
seriously ill. 

The house-sisters, admitted of a morning and an evening 
to do the chaplain’s room, were unable to supply the 
strangely excluded nursing-sisters with the data they de- 
manded to enable them to make a definite pronouncement. 
He had a bandage round his head, and he seemed to be sleep- 
ing a great deal. This was all that house-sisters under cross- 
examination could yield. Inadequate data for the really 
sympathetic nursing-sisters learnedly whispering together — - 
like parrots reciting their lessons — of concussion, brain fever, 
etc., etc. Impossible for nursing-sisters to stake their diag- 
nostical reputation upon more than this — something seriously 
wrong — but enough as a solid basis for whispering! 


The Ragged Messenger 


333 


It stood to reason. The gate-guard, or somebody else, 
had heard Dr. Colbeck at the telephone immediately after 
the accident, addressing him of whom the nursing-sisters 
spoke in reverence and awe, as Sir John. 

“ Can you do me a great favor, Sir John ? ” or something 
like that— ” yes, here. I shall be here all night.” Then, 
these words, the very words themselves—” I don’t like to 
ask you to leave your guests ” ; and then profuse thanks. In 
imagination one could see it — the telephone turning into a 
bioscope — Sir John giving a dinner-party at the big house in 
Grosvenor Street. Dinner over, coffee, liqueurs — guests still 
seated at the round table, looking black and gray behind the 
smoke of the cigars. Then the host called away for a minute 
by the insistent voice that cannot be silenced by the butler. 
Dr. Colbeck implores the great Sir John to hasten, to get rid 
of his friends, and to speed through the cold streets to see — 
a broken forehead. Dr. Colbeck wants help, advice, in at- 
tending to something that should be safe in the hands of one 
of the probationers from the infirmary. Dr. Colbeck, with a 
lady doctor on the premises, with one or other of the two 
visiting surgeons due at 9 a.m. to-morrow, is going to sit up 
all night. One could not be surprised if nursing-sisters 
whispered. 

Then, at ten minutes past eleven, the great light had 
passed through the dark corridors; had been seen by gate- 
guard and the few sisters on duty about the House, by the 
many sisters off duty but lurking curious and invisible on 
stone steps and in doorways. An immense man in a fur 
coat and a silk hat, with a fringe of white hair looking as 
though it were pinned inside the back of the great hat, to 
hang an inch away from the back of the pink neck — Sir 
John, no one else! 

Later, after a long sitting in the chaplain’s room, he had 
walked with Colbeck in that corridor with the narrow win- 
dows above the street — out of sight, now, out of hearing, of 
any lurking sisters. As they walked side by side in silence, 


334 


The Ragged Messenger 

Colbeck moved each switch they passed and a blaze of elec- 
tric light came out and followed them. 

He was so big that he made Colbeck, a tall man, seem 
small. He was so great and Colbeck was so humble that 
they seemed like a student walking with a professor; and 
when they paused, it was as though a school-boy stood before 
a headmaster. But the big man was treating the smaller all 
the time as an equal — would not see the deference, totally 
declined to recognize it. When he spoke it was as another 
school-boy, but perhaps with the authority of the class-mate 
who is sure in his work — a safe boy to look over and crib 
from — one who won’t lead you astray. 

“ Well ? What was your doubt ? ” 

“G.P.I.,” said Colbeck, humbly. 

“Oh, no! Epilepsy — nothing else. But you were not 
unprepared for this? ” and there was the faintest surprise in 
the tone. “ You ’ve known him two years — of course you 
have been expecting it.” 

“ No,” said Colbeck, very humbly — “ I did n’t expect it. 
That ’s why I thought it must be the beginning of the other 
thing.” 

“ Oh, no! Honestly, I don’t think so ” 

“Of course,” said Colbeck, “it was my first thought — 
epilepsy — the moment I met him. What else could one 
think?” 

The great man nodded. 

“ But then, when I got to know him — seeing him fairly 
frequently — having opportunities for observing — I never at- 
tended him, you know — in touch with those who were 
always with him— I felt convinced that petit mat was not ac- 
tive-well, was absent. That there had been no attack of 
grand mat I was practically sure. Then this was exactly 
what I thought: A man — you have seen him— of iron frame, 
astonishing vitality— plainly epileptic in youth — the disease 
probably undetected, unsuspected by his people — going on a 
year, two, three years— nocturnal very likely — then gone— 


The Ragged Messenger 335 

but the brain mischief done — the clock set wrong at the start 
— the settled delusion accounted for, explained ” 

“ No doubt of it.” 

The great man could not support Colbeck’s exculpatory 
tone; of explanation, if not of apology. He waved it away 
— listened attentively, as though any thought of this speaker 
must be very worthy of close attention. 

“ Then I thought the worst age was safely past — say from 
forty to forty-four — with no recurrence, no sign or ” 

“ How old is he now exactly ? ” 

“ Forty-nine, I believe. About eighteen months ago he 
had a great shock — his wife left him, and after that I 
thought: Now we are in for it, and I watched him as closely 
as possible when chances came. But no ! not a sign of it. 
He was suffering intensely, but he faced his grief with great 
courage. In fact it seemed to steady him mentally. I am 
certain that the old delusion weakened suddenly, although 
people about him said he was odd, strange, and all that sort 
of thing. But I came to the conclusion: Now we are safe. 
I made up my mind — I would have staked anything on the 
conviction — that mind and body were safe. That having 
weathered the storm he would go on for years — to extreme 
old age, very likely.” 

‘ ‘ And you were right. Why should n’t he ? This is the 
bursting of the nerve-storm. If the storm does n’t return 
too often, why should n’t he go on ? ” 

“Then, this morning he had a touch of epileptic vertigo. 
I was surprised, but from the description given me I had no 
doubt; and when I saw him I was thinking of nothing else. 
Then as he talked — raved — he was very excited — there 
seemed to be fresh delusions — changing as he talked, and 
then the attack came, and I thought: This is the beginning 
of the end ” 

“Oh, no! It may be so, of course. You may be right 
after all — but I hope not.” 

Colbeck’s fine ear caught with intense relief the sense be- 


336 


The Ragged Messenger 

neath the tone. Standing like a student before his tutor, he 
heard with intense relief the words of the tutor’s thought: 
“ It cannot be so. I know that you are wrong.” 

The great light shone by day next time it appeared above 
the horizon of the sympathetic but inquisitive sisters. Three 
days had gone by, and Sir John and Colbeck were walking 
in the sunlit corridor. 

“ He is a very remarkable man. I don’t wonder you are 
so fond of him. But, Colbeck, how he does talk! One can’t 
get a word in edgeways. . . . Oh, yes, if I were you, I 

should keep him in bed just as long as you can — the longer, 
the better. . . . Exactly. Keep on about the injury to 

the head. Must lie quiet. Say I said so. If I were you, 
I ’ll tell what I should do; I should use a lot of sticking 
plaster,” said the great man, genially, “ so as he won’t twig 
there ’s no cuts if he feels with his fingers.” 

“And,” said Colbeck, humbly, “about the talk — if he 
persists in talking ? ” 

“ Let him talk. Can you stop him ? I know I could n’t,” 
and the great man laughed. 

He measured the thickness of the massive walls with a 
quick eye; glanced at the oak doors, so high, so solid; and 
admired the House by daylight. 

“Upon my word it really is stupendous! ” and he turned 
to Colbeck, “and for your friend, what better? Here he is 
for the rest of his days, safe and settled— work that he likes, 
people to look after him. I put it to you : Suppose, instead 
of being your friend, it had been an epileptic of his age, cir- 
cumstances, and natural inclinations, and you had been given 
free play to your fancy — to devise the safest surroundings, 
the most favorable conditions for his future — I put it to you, 
could you have thought of anything better than this f Hon- 
estly, I don’t think your friend could be more fortunately 
situated — I don’t think you could devise anything more 
secure.” 


337 


The Ragged Messenger 

They walked up and down, and again the chances were 
weighed in the finely adjusted balance of pathological sci- 
ence, and tested by the roughly marked standards of practical 
experience; and the great man once more told Colbeck not to 
worry about his friend, to take things easily — to believe in 
the balance and the gauge. 

“ My dear boy, don’t speak like that.” 

This was when Colbeck began to thank him again, and 
the professor laid a big hand on the student’s shoulder — 

“I ’ll come as often as you like — if you think I can be of 
the least use to you. I know you ’d do the same for me,” 
he said carelessly, “ and I ’d never scruple to ask you.” 

And with these words, so carelessly spoken, so nobly 
chosen, the professor went to his carriage. An immense 
man — watched as he passed along the stone corridors by in- 
visible sisters lurking on stone steps — in fur coat and silk 
hat, with a fringe of white hair above the brown fur; Sir 
John for the second time — no one else! 

“Colbeck, dear old fellow, is it right for me to loll here 
day after day like this ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, doctor’s orders. Sir John says you are to be kept 
absolutely quiet. We want to make a good job of that head 
of yours.” 

Morton raised his hand to his plastered forehead, and felt 
the network of stiff paper. 

“You have made a good job of it. There ’s no pain. I 
believe I ought to get up.” 

The chaplain’s room was very plainly furnished — the oak 
door, solid, high, with eight panels and brass lock and handle, 
perhaps the most decorative thing in it. L,ofty walls, distem- 
pered in light Indian red; a square of matting upon the 
boarded floor; a small chest of drawers, a writing-table with 
a green shaded lamp, a white saucer above another bulb for 
the electric light suspended by a red cord from the ceiling; a 
low, black iron bed, with a rough woollen coverlet; and 


338 


The Ragged Messenger 

above the bed, hanging above the chaplain’s pillow, the 
black-framed print of Righetti’s Christ that used to hold the 
post of honor over the mantelpiece in the Bedford Square 
drawing-room. A fire was burning in the low grate, and 
before it a house-sister had placed a brass latticed screen with 
small diamond and circular panes of red glass, through which 
the fire as it flickered and flamed sent queer red spots to 
dance upon the wall, or stain the white sheet and pillow 
with luminous crimson figures that seemed to change their 
shapes as the chaplain stirred the bed-clothes. Another 
house-sister had brought in an arm-chair and put it by the 
foot of the bed, for the doctor’s use during the long hours in 
which he sat with his patient. 

“ You need not feel any hurry about getting up. Every- 
thing is going on all right.” 

‘ ‘ I don’t feel any hurry. But for the service, I feel I could 
lie here forever with you, dear old fellow, to bear me com- 
pany. What a brick you are, Colbeck, to waste so much 
time on me! ” 

Across the strong forehead Colbeck had stuck his cunning 
network of plaster, with a piece of lint beneath it guarding 
the cut that had healed so rapidly, little branches of the 
plaster over the places where the bruises had been, over im- 
aginary cuts and contusions that had never existed, from 
temple to temple. All trace of damage from the fall had 
really vanished, except a very faint discoloration about one 
eyebrow. Eying in his gray shirt, in the twilight, the chap- 
lain looked very gray — hair gray, a gray stubble over chin 
and cheeks, and gray shadows in the hollows of the eyes; but 
the gray face had an expression of complete calm, an unlined 
restfulness, as though all emotion had been wiped off its 
surface. 

“ I could n’t have believed that I had grown so soft, Col- 
beck — I used to be hard enough. To turn faint like a 
woman, and then be knocked out of time by a smack on the 
head!” 


The Ragged Messenger 


339 


He had accepted the explanation without a question. He 
had been taken with sudden giddiness, and had stumbled 
and fallen. He had been stunned by his fall. The uncon- 
sciousness had come after the fall, not before it. In a week 
he had made no allusion to their conversation before the 
accident ; had said nothing of his excitement; of Lady 
Sarah’s sympathy and her appeal to his courage; not a word 
about the cause of his raving grief. It seemed as though a 
certain space of time before the seizure had gone from his 
memory. But he remembered the deed of trust; recalled 
the circumstances of the solicitor’s presence, to complete the 
deed with the last two signatures. 

‘ ‘ I love lying here really. I feel as though I had under- 
gone some extraordinary fatigue, — walked and run for days, 
— like a scout sent on a message through the enemy’s lines 
getting through at last and dropping, safe at last, by the 
camp fires of his own commander. Curious, is n’t it, that a 
tumble should shake a fellow like that ? ’ ’ 

“Ah! You see we are neither of us quite as young as we 
used to be. ’ ’ 

“Do you know what I have been thinking of? The 
monejr. My money gone. My burden lifted. Well, I feel 
as though it had in truth been some gigantic sack that I was 
forced to carry, day after day, month after month. Then at 
last, at my journey’s end, I might let it fall, and I sank 
down on the pavement utterly exhausted, and slept and slept 
for days.” 

“ Colbeck, you read novels. You know what they say in 
novels — I used to read them at Oxford — ‘ He felt as though 
something had snapped in his brain.’ Is that possible? 
Because I feel exactly as though something had snapped in 
my brain ? ’ ’ 

“ If it had, you would not be conscious of it. Your feeling 
of it shows that it has no physical basis — it is a sensation, 
nothing more.” 


340 


The Ragged Messenger 

“A sensation! A very pleasant sensation, too. Im- 
mense relief. Some horrible little door, on hinges that had 
rusted — stopping the good servants as they went about the 
business of their master — burst open, and the horrid obstruc- 
tion gone; or a board across a window blown in by a gale, 
and good clean glass in its place, through which one can look 
again at the wide, fair view! ” 

“ That sounds an improvement.” 

“Yes. Immense relief — that ’s why I am content to loll 
here so slothfully. Why should I worry? My beautiful 
House works smoothly. But for the service, I could lie here 
and wait — wait in sluggish content. You must think me a 
changed man, eh ? ” 

“ I think you a good patient to obey orders.” 

“ I like the orders, old boy. As I lie so snug — when you 
are not here and I have no one to talk to — I seem to be lis- 
tening to the thoughts of all my life. Seeing them too. I 
look down a thought-kaleidoscope made from the materials 
of my own life — lazily shaking it, seeing the changing 
thoughts falling into the old shapes — not worrying any more, 
asking no questions, content — and every now and then get- 
ting a clear sight of the mystery of it.” 

“The mystery of the kaleidoscope ? ” 

“ No, of my life. Scene by scene, year by year. I have 
gone over it — since I lay here — as though it had been an- 
other man’s life, and I was free now to loll and laze and 
think about it — like a lazy critic, like a slothful j udge sum- 
ming up the evidence very slowly — not trying really to pierce 
the mystery of the case that has been tried before him.” 

He was talking very quietly, without a trace of excitement. 
Indeed, in the natural prostration subsequent to the attack, 
all the old energy of voice and gesture had disappeared. But 
now Colbeck wondered. The man was completely recuper- 
ated in vitality, and yet he seemed to be able to touch upon 
the underlying grounds of the old mental vagaries calmly, 
without the least visible disturbance. 


The Ragged Messenger 


34i 


“ I used to think — God knows how I used to think. But 
I am sure now of things that lay wrapped in thought, yet 
could be struck at by doubt. . . .I’d like to tell you all 

about it, Colbeck. I should like to tell you. But it ’s diffi- 
cult to speak of to you,” he said very gently and affection- 
ately — “because you don’t believe, old fellow. You don’t 
believe.” 

“You must n’t tire yourself by talking. But tell me — 
whenever you like. I promise to listen attentively.” 

Colbeck wondered. Was he really meaning to lay bare 
the warped mechanism of the warped thought? Was this 
exquisitely rare chance to be given to the student ? the psy- 
chological physiologist to be analytically displayed at first 
hand for the psychologist to connect, while he listened, the 
links in a solid chain — the mental effect candidly stated, the 
brain cause plainly shown ? As a student Colbeck throbbed 
with the longing to hear. As a friend he told the patient 
not to tire himself. 

“ I would like to tell you.” 

A house-sister came in with some tea and dry toast, put 
the tray on a chair, and went out again. Morton raised 
himself a little in the bed, sipped the tea, and dipped the dry 
toast in it. Colbeck got up to switch on the electric light. 

“ No,” said Morton, “ don’t turn on the light, old fellow. 
The best hour of the day. The twilight hour — the children’s 
— ah!” and he sighed. “I love the fire-glow. No — don’t 
move the screen. I can see it — little red eyes blinking fire 
at me.” 


XXIX 


“ T COULD N’T tell you,” said Morton, dipping morsels 

1 of toast in his tea, “ when I first began to think of it — 
that I had been chosen as a messenger. But it was very 
soon — when I was very young, soon after my father and 
mother died — long before I really understood the words I 
heard in church.” 

“ I wonder what gave you such an idea ? ” 

“I can’t say, but it was there. And then, as my mind 
began to grow, it strengthened and took shape ; because I 
realized that I was a boy apart — different from all other 
boys.” 

“ How were you different? ” 

“I was being given signs by night and by day. Some- 
times when I thought, the thoughts came from outside, forc- 
ing entry, driving away the other thoughts in a flash — given 
to me as signs; and I could read the signs ” 

“ Could you ? ” 

“And strange things happened every time I doubted — 
signs. . . . I ’ll tell you, old fellow,” and he sipped his 

tea thoughtfully. “ Yes, I ’d like to tell you, and you shall 
explain them if you can. Will you? ” 

“ I ’ll try, if you like.” 

“ Well. Do you know the words of the Gospel about faith 
that can move mountains ? . . . Directly I heard them, 

they took hold of me — filled me with the glory of it. And 
that was the thought given to me — and soon the faith came 
—only in a flash — by night, and now and then by day.” 

342 


The Ragged Messenger 


343 


“ It appealed to your imagination. A child’s love of the 
miraculous. ’ ’ 

“Yes. Then when it came like that, I tried to test it. I ’ll 
tell you of the daytime first. Two things— explain them if 
you can. I had a fight when I was about fourteen — my first. 
It was a wonderful good fight, Colbeck, a very wonderful 
fight.” 

“ I have no doubt you held your own.” 

“ I was going down the road behind our house, past some 
cottages, and the boys were playing in the road — cads — that ’s 
what we used to call them, you know — not the boys from 
the school — hopscotch, chuck-penny, I don’t know what — a 
cad’s game — and a little girl was watching them and her 
mother called her from a cottage door. A dear little thing — 
yellow hair and eyes like blue flowers — thinking of nothing 
but the game. z\nd just as I passed, the biggest lout there 
came and gave her a back-hander across the mouth to make 
her go. She almost fell, and then ran sobbing. I called 
him a coward as I walked on.” 

“ Oh, you walked on ? ” 

“Yes, And they all reviled me — half a dozen there, you 
know — and stoned me — as cads always do — as I walked on 
to the stile. No stone hit me. Old boy, my blood was boil- 
ing; but I sat upon the stile and waited — watched them at 
their game — and watched them till my rage, upon the anvil 
of my thoughts, was beaten into tempered strength. And 
all the time I thought — Now. Now for the flash of faith. 
Then I went back very quietly, and, as I came, the stones 
flew again. None hit me. 

“ Colbeck, old fellow, this is all true. No school-boy brag. 
They were heavier than I — older and much heavier. And 
I wondered while I struck. Down they went like ninepins 
— and I struck with a wild joy of good battle — a messenger 
at his work — wondering no more, working by faith. I split 
that lout’s blubber lips from the chin to the nostrils, and his 
shock head cracked upon his hopscotch floor as though he 


344 


The Ragged Messenger 

had been knocked down by* a butcher’s cart, and — from the 
wonder of it— all the others fled.” And the patient, sitting 
up in bed, brought a fist of one hand into the palm of the 
other. “ That was faith — a sign. What else could it be ? ” 

“ Why, you were a strong boy; you hit out straight from 
the shoulder. These heavy louts, windmilling at you, never 
used their weight.” 

“I hadn’t learnt to box then. And the marks! My 
knuckles were cut and bruised, and I thought my aunt 
would make a fuss. I washed my hands in a little stream, 
and that night at supper, when I clasped my hands to say 
grace, all the marks were gone. What was that but a sign ? ’ ’ 

“You were a healthy boy. Your flesh was in a good 
state, you had washed away any irritating matter. By can- 
dlelight no bruises were perceptible.” 

“ Oh! Then there was a bull — a wicked, fierce old fellow 
— belonging to the farmer who had our land. It had broken 
loose, got clean away to the woods, they thought, and all 
were in pursuit. I thought — Here ’s my test! Let me bring 
the wild bull home. He had killed a sheep dog — gored and 
trampled it to death — on the edge of the wood. So they 
tracked him in fear and trembling. But I found him. 
Standing alone on the path, head down, facing me, watching 
me with wrathful eyes. There was no one in sight to 
wonder or ask questions. So I raised my hand — made the 
five points — and told him to stand still.” 

‘ ‘ Did he obey ? ’ ’ 

“No, dear old fellow. His fear was too great. Daunted, 
he turned with a bellow of panic, and bolted. I was fleet of 
foot, and I chased him for miles through the woodland, by 
the stream, out through the lanes to the broad, dusty road, 
and on and on, mile after mile, till I ran him down. As I 
took him by the halter he was smoking in sweat, trembling 
in terror ; and by the halter I led him back to his stall, tame 
as a cow, gentle as a lamb. Explain it, if you can.” 

“Why, simply you scared him, and you got him on the 


The Ragged Messenger 


345 


run. Of course he went then. Something in your gesture 
had been unusual, unexpected, as you stood before him. 
You were different from ” 

“Aha! You have said the word. I was different — very 
different.” 

“ I did n’t mean what you mean,” and Colbeck smiled. 

“ Never mind, old fellow. Now listen to this. At night 
I used to dream — as soon as I dreamed at all — that I could 
fly. I soared and swooped and gloried in it — called from the 
air to all people to see the wonder of it. But when they 
looked, the power seemed to go ; I fluttered down to earth 
and could not fly again. And in my dreams I used to think: 
Yes, this is faith. By faith I was flying, but when the peo- 
ple watched, the doubt had struck me — the wonder in my 
mind had killed the faith. Then I would go into a solitary 
place, and again I flew. Night after night, I flew in dreams.” 

‘ ‘ All children dream they are flying. The causes of the 
dream are generally accepted as proved.” 

“Oh! All children fly by night. Well,” and he paused; 
“ / flew by day.” 

“ Now I wonder what you mean by that.” 

“I ’ll tell you — exactly. I want to. But it ’s difficult — 
because you don’t believe. I used to go to a lonely place in 
the woods where none could see or wonder — on the open path 
where there was room — and test my faith. Now let me fly 
— and I held out my arms as a soaring bird and waited. 
Now let me fly — only a yard or two — a foot in the air, skim- 
ming above the path, then down — let me fly! And I spread 
my arms and beat the air with my hands. . . .” 

“Well?” 

“I can hear it in your voice. Never mind. I tell you I 
doubt it myself now— at least I did doubt it. I am not go- 
ing to worry any more. But you know I would not lie to 
you. . . . Well, many times it happened. It must have 

been a sign, what else? Suddenly, as I stood waiting, I felt 
the rush of the moving air upon my palms and face.” 


34 & 


The Ragged Messenger 


“Ah!” 

“ I was off the ground — then down again. The thing had 
happened.” 

The sensation of moving air! The aura epileptica ! Yes, 
thought Colbeck, that was it. Things had been as he sur- 
mised. The disease undetected, unsuspected, for a year, 
two years or more; then gone, but its mysterious mischief 
done in the morbid change in the nerve-cells of the brain, in 
the molecular degeneration beginning in the gray matter of 
the cortex; and henceforth the altered structure carrying 
the altered thought, while perhaps all the rest of the brain- 
cradle remained uninjured to nurse the sane and healthy 
thoughts. 

“ I was ready to believe it was hallucination. I asked my- 
self: Am I going mad ? But, Colbeck, in my doubt the sign 
came. One day, in the heart of the wood, I was lifted high 
in the air — so high that as I landed, the shock brought me 
to my hands and knees, and both were cut. Those marks 
remained to tell me it was true. That was the last time it 
happened.” 

‘‘You spoke of a school. Did you go to the school — as a 
boarder ? * ’ 

“ For a year or two — as a day boy. They called me sullen 
and idle, and I left — but I worked at my books with an old 
scholar in the village. I was not really slow, but I worked 
by fits and starts. I had my own way, and they let me run 
wild. I lived with my aunt; there would be some money for 
me when I came of age. I need not be really learned. It 
did not matter — I was going into the Church.” 

The room was getting darker. Colbeck could not see, but 
he thought that his patient smiled. 

‘‘So now I thought I was sure. I had been marked out 
as a messenger, and all day long I thought about my mes- 
sage. My aunt was ailing, always in her room; I was alone 
with my thoughts. On my long rambles I spoke to no one. 
I was sullen, they said, and the boys fought shy of me.” 


347 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Not surprising. They knew how you used your fists 
when you got excited.” 

‘ ‘ I was strong and fleet of foot, and I roamed all day in 
the woods; laid me down in the fern and watched the clouds 
when I was tired, or sat in a dry ditch and watched the rab- 
bits and the birds, thinking, thinking, thinking — till the 
voice began to whisper.” 

“ What voice ? ” 

“The Devil’s. I did n’t understand at first, but then I 
guessed. The Devil was trying to tempt me. * Call down 
the birds,’ said the voice — not really a voice, you know, but 
the thought coming from outside, not my own thought. 

‘ Suffer them to come unto you. Bid them settle and hop 
to your side.’ And I did it once or twice— without faith — 
not thinking they would come, and they did n’t. 

“ But when I remembered what I had done, I trembled. 
I had shown weakness. I had listened to the voice. So I 
pulled myself together; set to work to harden — to test my- 
self. After a long morning when the dinner-bell rang inside 
me, I would sit me down and look at my dinner. Two hunks 
of bread, with a slice of meat or a slab of cheese, an apple 
perhaps — good fare for a hungry, hearty boy! Then I ’d 
cut it up with my knife and gloat upon the morsels — then 
throw my dinner to the birds. They came then — hopping, 
and I laughed and roamed on with an empty belly. A 
messenger should endure.” 

“ No one— not even a messenger — should play pranks with 
his digestion.” 

“ Pranks! That ’s just what they were, old fellow,” and 
the patient laughed. “I ’ll tell you some more of my 
pranks,” he continued thoughtfully. “ I had a stop-watch 
— a prize I won in a running race — and there was a place on 
the railway where a footbridge crossed the line. If you stood 
on the bridge and watched the express trains coming towards 
you, it seemed they could never get under it — they must 
knock you and the whole thing over. It was fun to stand 


348 


The Ragged Messenger 

there, and it gave me an idea. I got down the bank and 
walked along the line and waited with my stop-watch in my 
hand, and I timed a train from the bridge to where I stood. 
Then I timed myself as I strolled across the metals. I 
timed it all, going nearer to the bridge, and calculated it 
carefully till I knew how much time I should want; and I 
made a test of it. I used to take out my Bible and wait, 
watching the bridge. Then, as the white smoke struck it, 
I dropped my eyes to my book and strolled across, reading 
and trying to think of what I read. ‘Verily ... If 
ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto 
this mountain, remove hence to yonder place. . . .’ I 

was testing myself. A messenger should be cool. There was 
no danger, but it was good for the nerves. The wind of the 
train fanned one’s neck! 

“ And all the time the voice whispered, ‘ Stand still. Tell 
the train to stop. Forbid it to harm you. Do not suffer it 
to pass the bridge. . . .’A foolish prank I know. Not 

fair, because it frightened the drivers. Gangers were placed 
to watch. But I was sharp enough. I saw them crouching. 
I should have been ashamed to be caught at such a trick, so 
I thought of something else. I would leave my warm bed 
at night; go down to the church; climb the ivy of the locked 
tower; get in at the window; up the dark stair; and walk 
upon the parapet, up and down, round the finials, in the 
darkness. A messenger should be brave! But there was no 
danger. I could walk upon our garden walls, I could walk 
up there. . . . Sometimes the voice was there to whisper, 

‘ Now, step off. Step off. Come down by the air-staircase. 
Surely, you will not dash your feet against the stones ? ’ But 
I laughed at the voice. . . . Boyish pranks, old fellow 

— larks! But none of ordered purpose — trying to test myself 
as a messenger. ’ ’ 

Colbeck rose from his arm-chair and put some coals on the 
red fire. Under the first scoop the white flames darted up, 
lighting the room, showing him his patient’s face — very calm, 


349 


The Ragged Messenger 

a friendly smile upon the lips, the steady, watchful eyes meet- 
ing his, an attentive, almost a yearning expression, it seemed, 
in them, but no excitement. Then with more coals the flame 
died, the smoke crept up, and the patient’s watchful face be- 
came gray and indistinct again. 

“You don’ t believe ? ’ ’ 

“ I find it rather difficult to follow,” said Colbeck, gently, 
and he poked the fire. “The message — and the way you 
use the word messenger — as though in a special but well- 
understood sense — I am out of touch, as you know.” 

“You don’t believe in anything. Do you, old fellow ? It 
is to end here ? ’ ’ 

“What is it you all want?” said Colbeck, very gently. 

‘ ‘ Immortality ! To live forever ? ’ ’ and he came and stood 
by his patient. “ After all, perhaps it is not an impassable 
gulf that lies between us. Difference of words if you like — 
perhaps. In a sense — I will say — you will have your wish. 
In this House— in the endless, unseen consequence of every 
act of your life— you will live again. Is n’t that enough for 
you ? ’ ’ 

“No,” said the patient. “That won’t do,” and, raising 
himself in the bed to a sitting posture, he grasped his doctor’s 
arm and pressed it affectionately. “ You don’t believe— but 
you will believe, dear old fellow. / tell you so.” 

Colbeck pulled up the woollen coverlet, gave the patient a 
friendly pat on the shoulder, and went back to his arm-chair. 

“You men of science believe we are dust— cosmic dust— 
the same dust of the universe out of which all things are 
made— and to dust we must return. You and the stars and 
all the dust between are one. Atoms whirled together and 
atoms whirled apart. That ’s about it, is n’t it? ” 

“Well, something like that,” said Colbeck, very gently, 
soothingly. 

“Oh, I know it all— your great thoughts and your little 
faith. I have read all the books— and laughed, while your 
books laughed at me. A superstition handed down from the 


35 ° 


The Ragged Messenger 

darkness of narrow brains and savage craving — consolation 
for school- girls, comfort for old women — then laugh. A 
feeble myth, a worn-out fable. Then the laugh ! But he 
laughs best who laughs last. Where will the laugh be on 
the day of judgment ? ” 

“Ah, well!” 

“You don’t believe it, Colbeck, but you will believe it. 
No fable for children — but the living, undying truth.” He 
was speaking quite calmly, but with intense earnestness — 
his low voice becoming deeper and stronger, but without a 
vibration of excitement. “ No matter what I used to think 
— right or wrong — I am not going to worry any more — about 
myself. But this I know — the living truth : — 

“ God came down upon earth and dwelt in the shape of a 
man— and will come again. . . . Has come again, Col- 
beck. Not once, but again and again. . . .” 

“ Now,” thought Colbeck, “ we are going to have it.” 
“Not living in men’s hearts and thoughts — metaphorically, 
as these blind priests say — but truly. Not the divine, all- 
pervading essence passing through us— through you, and 
Sarah, and me — as a wanderer in the picture gallery of our 
thoughts; tarrying if a picture pleases, hurrying on— making 
us blessed for an hour, a day, or a week — till the guardian- 
devil returns to drive Him away. But made man once more 
— flesh and blood, bone and muscle — once in a hundred years 
— made man” — and suddenly, with his clenched fist he beat 
his breast — ‘ ‘ man — like me. ’ ’ 


XXX 

W HO can doubt it ? The sacrifice again and again — 
for every age — in time, for every country. The 
Messenger crucified by the world — not on the cross — the 
mystery acted again and again. How else can one credit it ? ” 
“And,” asked Colbeck, in low, soothing tones, “ do you 
trace such reappearances in history ? ” 

“ No. I don’t. I don’t. But, after all, why should one? 
Think what a little place was Palestine, how small a stir it 
made. A far-off province of a greedy empire. Why, I re- 
member reading a story by a Frenchman,” he went on, 
thoughtfully. “ Clever enough, possible enough! Pontius 
Pilate — very old, full of honors — at his villa near Naples, 
entertaining a Roman general to breakfast — who asked him 
about the trial and death of Him of Nazareth. Had read 
something about it, been struck by a detail, wanted the true 
particulars. Pilate lolling on the couch tried to recall any- 
thing, — the name even — could not. ‘ I don’t remember the 
circumstances,’ he said at last, ‘ but I can tell you this. We 
had a lot of trouble of that sort at one time. No doubt the 
man you speak of was condemned at that period.’ After 
all, who can wonder ? What a chance it was that the words 
lived ! . . . 

“ Suppose,” and he paused. “Suppose . . . I used 

to think sometimes.” 

“ What did you think ? ” 

“ Well. As to searching history — what a chance it must 
be always ! In fifty years what will be said of Morton ? He 

35i 


35 2 


The Ragged Messenger 

had money and he spent it. What other record could I 
hope to leave? How soon the words will fade! ” 

“ But a chance — such as the chance then — ought to make 
some of the words live — as you put it. If your theory were 
tenable, surely one among them would have made his mark 
— would be recognizable — Some one. Fox — Wesley — for 
instance ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, no! They were not Messengers. I can’t say. I 
have wondered. But they would die violent deaths. That 
must be certain. Sooner or later, the call would come and 
they would seal their message with their blood. They would 
lay down their lives as the last proof of the sincerity of their 
message. That must be certain. The sacrifice again! I 
don’t see why it need be known,’’ and he paused. “ I have 
read things — in newspapers — and wondered. ... In the 
darkness of a tropical sea a lascar falls from the davits to be 
torn by the waiting sharks. In the darkness a man dives to 
the rescue and is seen no more of human eye — while the ship 
ploughs onward through the darkness. Perhaps it was He ! 
Who knows ? ’ ’ 

“ Did you propound your theory to people — at Oxford, for 
instance — I suppose it was known that you were going into 
the Church— did you tell them about it? ” 

“Oh, no ! That was a moody, languid time with me. I 
was just waiting to give over my message. Besides, I could 
not have spoken there — I hated the place.” 

“ Did you? ” 

“A dead town, Colbeck — a priests’ town — a charnel-house. 
Nothing living but the lies. I hated it.” 

“Asa Cambridge man it would be polite to say: Oh, no ! 
But I rather agree with you.” 

“Yes, I was sullen and silent, they said. But I was 
waiting — thinking of my message — trying to harden myself 
for the fight. There was no hurry. I had made up my 
mind not to speak the words until I was over thirty. Not 
till then. . . . But all this time I was being tempted — 


The Ragged Messenger 


353 


sorely tried. The Voice was at my elbow. The Devil 
brought out his double-edged sword of doubt and desire, and 
hacked at my flesh as I walked beside him. 

“I was tempted of the flesh. I longed for the love of 
women. At home — one year — in the long vac. — when our 
woods were full of flowers and the air used to be hot and 
heavy — each day and all day I bore the blows of the sharp- 
edged sword. I lay on the warm sweet earth and longed for 
love — to love and be loved by a woman. And with the 
longing came the doubt. I lay swooning with desire — a 
yearning, weakening craving of the mind and the body for 
its mate. Then, when I walked on, the Voice walked with 
me — base and loud and foolish — not understanding really — 
using the wrong side of his sword — hacking my flesh with 
desire, when with doubt he might have vanquished me. He 
bade me look from the thicket above the wood-path where 
the girls wandered lonely. A farmer’s daughter — I remem- 
ber — with apple cheeks — who walked strong and boldly. A 
governess from the Infant School, with red lips on a white 
face — who seemed to droop upon the path — she walked so 
slowly. 

“‘See,’ said the Voice. ‘The white-limbed nymph. 
Now. Now. Spring like a fawn from the brake. Take 
her, from me ! Roll with her in the sunlight, among the 
trampled flowers. Take your pleasure, and fly!’ And my 
blood drummed at my temples; I throbbed and burned as he 
threw his fire- cloak about me — but yet I spurned him, laugh- 
ing at the tempter. It was not that I wanted — 'the satyr’s 
solace for his brief rage— it was love . And as I moved 
away, the Devil crept at my heels like a dog that has been 
beat. 

“But the doubt, Colbeck, — happy sweethearts, smiling 
wives — as I saw and longed and thought about it all ! Why 
not ? It was my doubt in the truth of the story of Christ’s 
life. If made man — why not ? Made but half-man otherwise! 
I marvelled, and waited — till the light came. More and 

23 


354 


The Ragged Messenger 

more I marvelled. But at last, in a glorious flash, the light 
came. His days on earth were numbered ! . 

‘ ‘ Then I understood. L,ove should be the autumn fruit 
of continence — the good ripe fruit of maturity, not the frail 
blossom of youth. That ’s the good love, Colbeck — the first 
love of a man’s life when it comes to him after he has passed 
his thirty-third year,” and with a slow movement of the 
hand he made the sign of the cross. “Then the Devil’s 
sword was sheathed. I was safe now. No hurry. I would 
wait in peace. I took orders, but waited still. Then the 
time came and I began my ministry. I never spoke till I 
was over thirty — then my ministry began. 

“ I waited for a mate patiently, till the appointed time — till 
I was over thirty-three. My birthday was in December, and 
I waited till Easter was past — it was a late Easter that year. 
Then I looked for my mate. I had the Dover Street Chapel, 
you know, and she used to sing — among the girls behind the 
curtains of the organ loft. I loved her voice, and in an hour, 
when I was given my freedom, I loved herself. I used to 
call her my white snowdrop. She was very pale — anaemic, 
poor lamb! A good girl — simple and true — and she loved 
me, Colbeck. She lived with her widowed sister, and they 
both worked in a bonnet shop in Sloane Street. The shop ’s 
gone now — the house rebuilt; an auctioneer in the new shop. 
I used to wait for her on the pavement outside and walk 
home with her to the buildings where they lived — Marl- 
borough buildings — Walton Street. Their rooms were at the 
top. Three good rooms with a kitchen, and a wide view for 
my darling ... to the new towers of the museum. 
Trees in the yard below, with round seats where we sat like 
lovers. They called them lovers’ seats — the place had many 
lovers. We were to be married very soon.” His voice had 
sunk. He was speaking as though to himself, summoning 
the mental pictures slowly and very thoughtfully. 

“ Then her sister came to me and told me — she was dying. 
I was to go to her at once, to comfort her while she passed. 


The Ragged Messenger 


355 


My darling wanted to lie in my arms. ... A summer 
night — the streets full of carriages — a ball, with a band and 
lovers dancing, at a house that stretched all the way from 
Piccadilly to her home — and whistling for cabs that I heard 
in her room. The doctor spoke to me — No hope — He was 
going. . . . Her sister told me to lie on the bed, and 

left us. So we lay, and I held her in my arms through the 
swift night to the slow dawn — the first time, Colbeck — I 
swear it by the cross — that I had held a woman to my breast 
— like that. And as she lay in my arms, gasping, dying — 
hour after hour — in my agony, I prayed for a sign. . . . 

“If it be possible take the cup from me. . . . She 

stirred in my arms; gave a gasp — Dead! ” 

“ What was it,” asked Colbeck, in a very low voice, “ that 
proved fatal so suddenly ? ” 

“Perforating ulcer of the stomach. I went on praying. 
Till the sun was high I knelt by the bed and prayed that she 
might come to life — as a sign. But I knew that she would 
never breathe again. No faith in my prayer. I ’ll tell you 
why. I knew it in the first pang of my grief. I knew that 
this was God’s test. I had tested myself. He was testing me 
now. He was testing the strength of his Messenger. . . . 

“You can’t believe it, Colbeck. Nothing will make you 
believe. I tell you, at that time, I knew . . . . 

“So then I went about my work — a man who walks on 
upturned knives, a man scalded nigh unto death, burnt to 
the very bone — but with peace in his heart — a trusted Mes- 
senger at last! ” 

He had raised himself higher in the bed, lifting himself by 
the iron rail between the poles, and now he was leaning back 
upon his raised arms. Colbeck could not see his eyes. In 
the voice there was intense earnestness, no excitement. 

“ But in sleep I suffered,’’ and he stretched out his arms. 
“Colbeck, my bed was my crucifixion — night after night — 
for weeks, for months. Kach night memory drove the nails, 
and I hung on my dream-cross. . . .’’ 


356 


The Ragged Messenger 

He had stretched his hands along the iron rail until they 
grasped the iron knob at either end. As he spoke, his head 
sank down towards his right shoulder. 

Colbeck started forward in his arm-chair under the im- 
petus of a violent illusion; then moved his eyes from side to 
side as he gauged its completeness. It was as though the 
picture from the great hall had suddenly risen through the 
floor beneath the dark print, and taken life — the gaunt and 
broken-down ascetic hanging in his torment; the drooping 
head; the branching crown of thorns — everything! 

‘ ‘ What is it, dear old fellow ? ’ * 

Colbeck, with a stifled exclamation, had sprung to his feet 
and stepped forward. In an instant the face had become a 
red horror of blood — luminous blood from eyes to neck. 

‘ ‘ Nothing. Only the fire. I forgot the fire. I thought 
it had gone out,” and Colbeck sat down again. 

The flames that had spurted up began to flicker; the glass 
screen became dark again; the luminous red patches of light 
danced upon the wall, stained the white sheets, changed their 
shapes as Morton moved, and then faded. 

“ I descended into Hell. Night after night I sought my 
darling. Through rock-strewn valleys — the valley of the 
Shadow of Death — I wandered seeking the pit mouth, the 
winding path— No fires, Colbeck— gray shadowland. Only 
the hell of our troubled dreams — not the place of fire or I 
would not have sought her.” And he spoke very slowly 
again, as though summoning the mental presentment. ‘ ‘ Gray 
shadowland. The torture of vastness. Heights that stunned 
one, depths that turned one sick to think of. No rest for the 
tired eye — the air as thronged as the solid ground. . . . 

And I would see her hanging from the torn edge of a preci- 
pice, and strive to reach her, to clasp her hand and draw her 
up to me. ... It was not she. . . .At last I saw 

her, dressed in pale light, with a garland of primrose flame, 
walking with the blest. Then I rose again. . . . 

“You can’t believe it. Nothing will make you believe it. 


357 


The Ragged Messenger 

Still I like to tell you. Explain it if you can. I went 
about the work — I strove to be a sturdy Messenger. I did 
not spare myself. A ragged servant as you saw. What was 
money to me f Colbeck, I never counted money — though I 
longed for it to print the message if I might. I spent my 
own at once before I began my ministry — and what I got I 
gave. Yet I had plenty. Fed by the ravens, I used to say, 
— as a sign. Explain it if you can. 

“ That ’s my life till . . . my life till I met Mary. 

Then when my love came for Mary — it was my reward, I 
said, and I loved her. How I loved her,” and he threw up 
his arms and his voice broke in a sob. “ Merciful Father, 
how I loved her! ” 


XXXI 


I N a fortnight from the time of his accident the chaplain 
was permitted to go about his work again. The daily- 
service in the chapel was resumed, and sympathetic kneeling 
sisters saw for themselves that there was no disfigurement; 
not a mark left on the broad, high forehead to tell of the in- 
jury that had caused their consulting physician so much 
anxious thought and watchful care. 

Throughout the winter Colbeck was a frequent visitor at 
the House, and from his own observation and Lady Sarah’s 
reports he was able to assure himself that there had been no 
recurrence of the mischief. The nerve-storm had burst with 
violence, and rolled away, leaving calm behind it. Not a 
single symptom of epileptiform character presented itself as 
the weeks glided by — and nothing to re-awaken the doubt 
laid to rest by the big man in the fur coat. Quietly, with- 
out restlessness or a sign of excitement, Morton went about 
the work — writing, talking to the sisters, reading to the poor 
guests, praying with them and for them at bedsides in the 
infirmary; addressing a few words to them as he stood by 
the lectern of an evening, now and then. He had not 
preached any real sermon, Lady Sarah reported. The fire 
was gone again, said old Bigland, regretfully. The master 
was letting the words fall too tamely for the taste of his ar- 
dent disciple. The chaplain, said Lady Sarah, showed no 
inclination to go outside the walls of the great House. He 
walked in the garden now and then, in the cloisters very 
often, and seemed to obtain all the exercise he required. He 

358 


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359 


evinced no desire to visit his settlements or the Hertfordshire 
Colony, or to return to his old street-preaching. He listened 
to Colbeck’s description of progress at Talgarth, and rubbed 
his hands with satisfaction each time that he heard all was 
well; but it seemed as though the idea of inspecting the good 
work did not even occur to him. He had wound up his 
estate satisfactorily; henceforth he would contentedly leave 
the trouble of it to the innumerable trustees. It was all in 
safe control. Colbeck remembered often what Morton had 
said about not worrying any more in that long talk in the 
chaplain’s room, to the subjects of which neither had since 
then ever alluded. He remembered, too, the wise words of the 
great wise man. Safe within the solid walls, among his own 
people, secure from the perils of street accidents; the falling- 
sickness when walking amidst crowded traffic, the brief un- 
consciousness which in a place of danger might lead to swift 
death through misadventure — what better conditions could 
foresight, unfettered as to means, have devised for his friend ? 

One night in early March Colbeck came down to the 
House, after dining alone at his club. He had spent a long 
day in the country, occupied all the morning with the archi- 
tects of the college, who were making considerable alterations 
in the plans during the process of construction: then, the 
morning hours gone, he had started late on his round, and 
only completed it after dark. But just now there was as 
much work in Lennox Street for the consulting physicians 
as the physicians cared to do. After a mild winter, the 
weather with the approach of spring had turned bitterly cold. 
The murderous northeast wind blew day after day; the foul 
dust of the streets whirled through the town, hiding itself 
every hour in squalls of powdered snow or wet sleet; at street 
corners the wind-knives stabbed; shop-keepers were com- 
plaining that spring sales were ruined, business had fallen to 
nothing; no one who was not compelled would consent to 
loiter on the cold pavements: the infirmary of the House was 
nearly full. 


36 ° 


The Ragged Messenger 

The gate-guard told him that the chaplain would probably 
be found in the council chamber. She understood that he 
was writing there with Mr. Bigland. She knew that a big 
fire was kept up there of an evening, because Mr. Bigland 
made such a fuss with the house-probationers about the 
supply of dry logs. One of the writing-tables had been car- 
ried there from the library, and, as she came on duty, she 
had met the old gentleman chuckling over a tray of envel- 
opes — several hundreds, he boasted, all addressed by him- 
self. A little harmless kite-flying, thought Colbeck. The 
printed forms, sent skyward, filling unoccupied hours with 
innocent amusement. Was L ady Sarah in the House ? Yes, 
said Sister Jane Edith, the intelligent gate-guard, her lady- 
ship was still here; had been here since 4 p.m. as the guard- 
sheet showed; but was not staying all night, was going back 
to Park Lane. A four-wheeled cab was ordered on the door- 
sheet to be waiting at 10.45 — after the first of the street-sisters 
had come in from the first night circuits. 

Morton was alone in the council chamber, writing very 
comfortably and peacefully in the warmth of the cheerful 
wood-fire. Colbeck stood by the small table talking for a 
few minutes. He glanced automatically, while they chatted, 
at the chaplain’s manuscript. 

“ Busy as usual — sermon, essay — you put me to shame. I 
never write now. ’ ’ And his keen eyes swiftly, automatically, 
swept and searched the close lines of the MS. No unfinished 
words, or ugly gaps of dropped letters; the somewhat illeg- 
ible hand was firm as usual; no shakiness or wavering; no 
broken upstrokes. Nothing wrong in the council chamber. 

As he sat by a bed talking to the lady-doctor in one of the 
sick wards, he saw Lady Sarah for a moment. She smiled 
as she passed, and he fancied that she looked careworn; that 
the face he had learnt to read by such untiring study seemed 
very sad directly the smile had gone. He was a considerable 
time in the infirmary. It was twenty-five minutes past ten, 
he saw by the clock in the passage, as he went down to wash 


The Ragged Messenger 


361 


in the surgeons’ lavatory. He was glad that he had got 
through with his work with twenty minutes still in hand 
before the arrival of the four-wheeled cab. 

In the main corridor, as he came back below the council 
chamber, past the refectory, outside the great hall, a sister 
told him that Lady Sarah had gone to her room. He tapped 
at the door; disregarded the invitation to come in, issued to 
the supposed sister who had knocked; and stood waiting till 
Lady Sarah came out to him. 

“ Well. What is it? What are you anxious about — not 
Morton ? ” 

“Oh, no,” said Lady Sarah. “There has been nothing 
— nothing at all, or I should have told } r ou without a mo- 
ment’s delay.” Then she smiled. “Why did you think I 
was anxious? ” 

“ I saw it in your face — worry — trouble of some sort. 
Come and tell me about it.” 

Lady Sarah smiled, but her face had clouded. 

“ It really is nothing — nothing at all worth speaking of.” 

Up and down this main corridor some one was always 
passing — a matron, a head-sister, a visiting-sister going in 
and out of the rooms. He suggested that they should go 
somewhere to talk in peace — the corridor outside the chap- 
lain’s room. There would be no one up there, but she had 
better bring a coat or a shawl — it might be cold. Yes, he 
wanted to hear about the small worry, however small it was. 

He carried the long brown cloak with the sable collar and 
led her through the empty, dimly lit refectory, upstairs into 
the music gallery, and by the passage behind the council 
chamber out into the dark corridor where the single lamp 
burnt like a spot of fire by the end window above the 
street. 

“Now tell me.” 

As he drew the soft fur about her neck his fingers trembled. 

“Tell me,” he said again. “ Is it your father? Has he 
been unkind again ? ” 


362 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Yes.” That was the little trouble. As they walked up 
and down Lady Sarah told him all about it. 

For a long time Lord Patrington had declined to speak to 
her. Ever since the opening of the House and her first visits 
to it, he had treated her as a child who was in disgrace; and 
had made life in Park Lane as painful as he could. He had 
allowed the servants to see the state of their relations, had 
given them notes to take to her, had let them clearly un- 
derstand that oral communications were at an end. Lady 
Sarah had been very sorry, had pleaded; but she could not 
yield. How could she ? So when at home she had lived in 
her own rooms and left the remainder of the great house to 
its gloomy owner. The letters from her father had been 
about money generally; a monthly check, with threats as to 
what would happen if she persisted in her disobedience and 
continued to bring discredit on her family. Then, gradually, 
his lordship had worked upon the feelings of her relatives till 
all had become alienated, and, adopting his view of matters, 
had written her a sort of farewell letter saying that while she 
went to her House in Lennox Street they regretted to state 
that she would not be a welcome guest at their houses in 
Charles Street, Hill Street, etc. — or words to that effect. Her 
sister had been the first to go over to the enemy. Writing 
from her beautiful place at Wheatley in Oxfordshire, Lady 
Emily had roundly accused her of making herself so notori- 
ous as to throw a blighting influence as far as Oxfordshire, 
and, by her insane behavior, of jeopardizing the future pros- 
pects of baby nephews and nieces. No lisping lips at Wheat- 
ley henceforth should call her aunt unless she immediately 
desisted. Lady Tollhurst was the last to go. No one could 
say she was not liberal in her opinions, and she thought the 
whole building too wonderful for words, but really — and she 
had discussed it recently with a very illustrious lady indeed 
— she did honestly think that, for once, her brother-in-law 
was absolutely in the right. Really it must be put a stop to. 

But his lordship, with the solid support of the family 


363 


The Ragged Messenger 

behind him, had inserted worse and worse threats in his let- 
ters. He would not be trifled with any longer. She must 
make up her mind and choose once for all — Lennox Street or 
Park Lane. Not both. He would have no more of her to- 
and-froing. He would close his doors against her, cut off sup- 
plies, and leave her to her fate. With the last monthly check 
three days ago had come his ultimatum; not another penny 
of his should go to the daughter who was disgracing him. 
This had frightened Lady Sarah and for an hour or two had 
made her almost despair. 

It was a dreadful thing even to think of — to be homeless, 
without money to maintain herself, and soon perhaps, if she 
offended the council or failed to please the governors, be not 
wanted in Lennox Street any more than in Park Lane. 
Then in her distress she had thought of talk at home about 
trust funds, and trustees of whom her father often com- 
plained. She knew that an old general who lived in the 
Albany was one of these trustees, and she had gone to him 
for advice — for help if he could give it. Really it had been 
an inspiration, but really she had felt utterly helpless, alone, 
with no one to protect her from the family’s unkindness. 

“ Yes, ” said Colbeck, almost sternly; “you want some one 
to protect you.” 

The dear old general had been very kind. At once he 
made the astonishing revelation that those pennies of which 
papa talked so largely were not his, and never had been. 
She was independent of papa, provided for by her mother’s 
settlement, and would gain rather than lose by leaving the 
big house, to the annual expenses of which a full contribu- 
tion had always been paid on her account. As to turning 
her out of the house — But the general would have a chat 
with her father, who naturally meant well, but had certainly 
been expressing himself in an unbecoming manner. 

The general no doubt had talked to his lordship in this 
sense; but to-day the general had written to her, and while 
telling her again that she was never more to feel uneasiness 


364 


The Ragged Messenger 

from any paternal threat, and expressing sympathy with her 
charitable views, he begged to inform her that he and his co- 
trustee were of one mind after mature consideration; her 
father had been very wrong in method but completely right 
in ultimate aim. In four sheets of reiterated advice, the 
general urged her to drop Lennox Street. And it was the 
defection of the newly found ally that had brought the cloud 
to her pale, sad face. All the world was against her. 

“ They talk as though I was still quite a young girl. They 
forget that I was thirty on my last birthday. They won’t 
understand that I ’ * 

“ Look! ” said Colbeck. “ Look down there.” 

They were at the end of the corridor, and he took her by 
the arm and very gently turned her towards the window. 
As he held her arm for a moment, the blood danced in his 
veins. 

“Do you see that poor loafer, by the lamp-post?” — he 
was talking over her shoulder while she looked down into 
the wind-swept street — “ Do you see his face ? No, you can’t 
see his face, but you can see his dejected attitude — head 
down, back limp — nearly every spring of hope broken. Do 
you know who he is ? He is /. Your old servant — Do you 
remember what I told you ? — your old servant, waiting out- 
side in the darkness — waiting always. ’ ’ 

“Oh, Dr. Colbeck” — Lady Sarah did not look round — 
“ you promised not to speak of all that again. I hoped — I 
believed you had done thinking of it.” 

‘ ‘ I promised not to speak for a year. I am always think- 
ing of it. That is why I break my promises.” 

“ I am so sorry — so very sorry,” said Lady Sarah. 

“Look at him — shivering, wretched — almost without 
hope.” 

“Dear Dr. Colbeck, I told you at first that I could not 
change — that you must not hope for that,” said Lady Sarah, 
without looking round, in a low, sad voice. “ I am honored 
— touched beyond words — I am more sorry than I can say.” 


The Ragged Messenger 


365 


She spoke sadly, but very kindly; with regret and tender 
sympathy. At the sound of the regretful tenderness, for a 
moment his blood flowed in a delicious stream of gentle fire, 
making him feel like an infinitely weary man stretched in a 
warm bath. 

“ You know how I admire you,” said kady Sarah. “ Your 
friendship means so much — so very much to me — but that 
can never be.” 

Suddenly, as she turned, she felt his arms about her; and 
breast to breast, pressed to him, he held her. Instinctively 
she had raised her hands to guard her face; but with his hot 
lips he burst the screen of the long fingers, and fiercely, 
brutally, kissed her on her open, trembling mouth,, again 
and again and again. 

L,ady Sarah leant her forehead on her arm, against the 
stone wall, sobbing convulsively. 

“ Oh, why did you do it? Oh, why did you do it?” 

“You — you should n’t have spoken so kindly to me. I 
— I am not used to it.” 

And he glanced down the corridor in dread lest some 
brown sister should appear, to see and to wonder. 

“ Don’t, don’t,” he said, “ don’t mind — don’t mind — I am 
sorry.” 

Then, presently, he saw her face again — the eyes fearfully- 
red, the red tear- stain spreading beneath the delicate skin, 
the thin nose swollen — one of those faces upon which tears 
leave disfigurement. What would people think ? If a sister 
found them now! 

“Oh, they will see” — she was wiping her eyes — “they 
will see that I have been crying.” 

“ Don’t mind. No one need see. Your cab is here. By 
the time you reach Park Dane you ’ll be all right.” 

“ But I promised the head-sister to wait for the first night- 
sister — to go with them to the shelter — and the night ward.” 

Then rapidly he told her what to do — to go to her room, 
bathe the eyes in warm water, with some toilet vinegar— or 


366 


The Ragged Messenger 

eau de Cologne — dabbing, not rubbing, the skin, and draw- 
ing it towards the eyes in a gentle massage. 

“ Oh, will that make me all right ? ” 

He was abashed, ashamed of himself. But, as he looked 
at her, for a moment the fierce male instincts exulted — defied 
control, and exulted in cruel triumph. He had set his mark 
upon her, put the red print of a moment’s possession, stamped 
his passion on the proud face in tears. And the sweet, proud 
nature could forge no shaft to wound him; no stab of words 
came from the trembling lips. She looked at him, with wet 
eyes from red circles, in the helpless appeal of the woman 
who had suffered under the pitiless will of a man. You have 
done this shameful thing; now save me from the shameful 
consequences. And again, behind his abashed thought, the 
cruel instinct clamored in fierce joy. Had he marked her as 
his own ? 

He led her back, down stone steps, by dark passages; and, 
again telling her what to do, left her. Then he walked out- 
side the great hall — with mind abashed, with blood dancing. 

In the council chamber Morton had just put away his 
papers, and folded the long wire round the base of the read- 
ing-lamp that had been brought with the table from the 
library. He had laid down his busy pen at the sound of the 
signal bells ringing here and there behind the massive walls. 
Footsteps of sisters had begun to patter along the paved cor- 
ridors; the gate-guard had announced the arrival of house- 
guests, the first of the street-sisters had returned. 

Col beck, coming to say good-night, found the chaplain 
piling logs on the fire, while he talked to two of the sisters 
— a matron and a house-sister. 

“ Who are out west, first circuit? ” 

“Street-sister Ellen and Street-sister Kate,” said the 
house-sister, “with that poor woman, Emily, who came 
from Lavriano’s saloon.” 

“Is she taking them there ? ” 


The Ragged Messenger 


367 


“Yes.” 

“An evil den! At our very gates, Colbeck. Carpenter 
was right — we are well placed. We have n’t far to bring 
them to the friends they all seem to dread.” 

As the matron and the house-sister went out, a gray and 
elderly head-sister came into the room, followed, almost im- 
mediately, by Lady Sarah, Lady Sarah had put on her hat 
and veil. Colbeck could not see her eyes through the veil. 

“Well?” 

“ Street- sister Ellen, sir,” said the head-sister. “Just 
come in from first circuit west. ’ ’ 

“ How many ? ” 

“Four.” 

“ Rescued? ” 

“ No, sir. Only for the night shelter.” 

“Well?” 

“ Street-sister Ellen wished to know if you would speak to 
them before they go through.” 

“Yes, let them come. I will speak to them.” 

The head-sister went outside the door and rang a signal to 
the gate-guard. 

“ Poor wanderers,” and the chaplain stirred the blazing 
logs. “ One night of warmth and rest, and to-morrow they 
will go back to their sisters in shame to tell the trick of getting 
free supper and bed when their trade is slack. Well, let them 
say they were welcome — not made to pay for their supper by 
singing hymns or hearing sermons. One day they will return 
to go forth no more and we ’ll save our prayers till then.” 

“Good-night,” said Lady Sarah. “lam going after I 
have been round with Head-sister Frances.” 

“ Good-night. See that the fires burn bright.” 

“Good-night,” said Colbeck, and he left the chaplain 
alone to speak to the first batch of guests. 

Morton went to the door that led to cloisters and chapel, 
threw it open, and returned to the fireplace and stood look- 
ing into the fire while the sounds of footsteps drew nearer. 


3 68 


The Ragged Messenger 

“ Come in, my friends.” 

Sister Ellen and another sister were outside the open door. 
Four wretched-looking women stood upon the threshold as 
though afraid to enter. 

“ Come in. It is cold out there.” 

Very shyly they came forward a few steps. 

Very wretched they looked — standing timorous and doubt- 
ful just within the threshold — in their weather-beaten finery 
and damp, clinging garments. Beneath the huge hats of 
fashion’s latest shape, the tired faces were daubed with rouge 
— grotesquely over-painted it seemed here — reddened for the 
cold flicker of street lamps, and not for the soft glow of 
the electric light. Most wretched they looked; buffeted by 
the cruel wind, drenched with the cold sleet, mud-stained, 
abject — human flowers, that perhaps had once gladdened the 
cultured eye of a rich amateur, then, fading, cast with all 
the other refuse of life’s feast into the filthy gutter. 

“Don’t be afraid of my black coat — I am not going to 
preach to you. I only want to bid you welcome. This house 
is yours. It was built for you, and it is yours to use without 
thanking anybody. Come when you like — when the wind 
and the rain drive you and the night is black and chill. 
When your feet are too weary and your heart is too sorely 
bruised for the world’s hard ways, come back to your house 
for good; and may our Master whose mercy is infinite, guide 
your steps into the way of grace before the darkest night of 
all overtakes you. ’ ’ 

And the chaplain, who had been looking upward to the 
vaulted ceiling, waved his hand with a gesture of dismissal, 
and turned again towards the wood fire. 

As they went out, following Sister Ellen, the woman 
nearest the door stumbled, and then held the door as though 
to support herself. The chaplain turned from the fire and 
looked towards the door. 

“Mary!" 


XXXII 

Y OU have heard my prayer. You have come back to 
me.” 

“Oh, lam ill.” 

With his arm round her waist, he had carried her to a 
chair by the fire. Now, on his knees beside the chair, he 
was chafing her hands in his. A sistejr, missing one of the 
convoy, had returned to the open door. 

“Give me something to drink. I am ill.” 

“Here! Quick! Get some brandy. She is fainting,” 
and he put his arm round her again. 

The sister hurried away. Other sisters came to the open 
door. Without looking round, he called loudly: 

“Has Dr. Colbeck gone? Fetch him. Quick! . . . 

My darling, we ’ll make you strong and well. Don’t be 
afraid. Do you hear me ? ” 

“You are very good to me.” 

“Why have you stayed away? Why didn’t you come 
sooner ? ’ ’ 

“I did n’t dare.” 

The faintness had passed; the drawn features were con- 
torted for a moment with spasms as of sudden nausea; she 
coughed and shivered, and, when she spoke, her voice was 
low and rather breathless. She asked for water with the 
brandy when the sister returned. A matron arriving mixed 
the drink and Morton held the glass. 

“Now. Take this.” 

24 


369 


37 ° 


The Ragged Messenger 

“Poor soul,” said the matron, sympathetically. “She 
does look bad.” 

“She ’s my wife. My wife come home. We ’ll make 
her well. ’ * 

“Ah,” she had drunk the brandy and water very slowly. 
— “ Ah. That ’s good,” and she coughed. 

“Where ’s Colbeck ? Why does n’t he come? ” 

Colbeck’s voice was heard from the corridor as he 
hastened, followed by Eady Sarah and the head-sister. 
Sister Ellen had told them that one of the wanderers was 
swooning. 

“ Where ’s this poor woman ? ” 

“ My wife has come home. Colbeck, help me. My wife 
is ill.” 

Morton rose from his knees and made space for the doctor 
and the sister. 

“Tell them all,” he said loudly to the sisters by the door. 
“ Eet them all know that my wife has come home,” and he 
drew back to allow Eady Sarah to approach, and then stood 
watching Colbeck as he stooped over the sick woman. 

“ This is the sort of thing you like, Doctor,” she said with 
a smile that changed to a spasm as Colbeck took her hand. 
“ A hopeless case for you — a chance to prove your theory.” 
Then she saw Eady Sarah. 

“ Oh, you are here.” 

“ I am so sorry you are ill.” 

“ Are you ? ” 

Colbeck turned and came to Morton. 

“Well?” 

“ We must take her to the infirmary.” 

“No. My room. She mustn’t be with — the others. 
Tell me the truth — how ill is she ? ’ ’ 

“I ’ll tell you later — as soon as I know myself. She is 
gravely ill. I want certain things done.” 

He had taken his arm and drawn Morton awa}^ towards 
the far end of the room. There he talked to him in a low 


The Ragged Messenger 371 

voice, and, summoning the head-sister to them, issued rapid 
instructions. 

Mrs. Morton, alone for a few minutes with Lady Sarah, 
seemed to have recovered from the faintness, to be better 
already. 

“ You have n’t altered,” and she looked across the 
room. “ He ’s mad, is n’t he? ” 

“No. No.” 

“They all say he is.” 

“It is not true.” 

Mrs. Morton stretched her thin hands towards the comfort- 
ing warmth, looked into the fire, and smiled. 

“Well, you won’t have long to wait.” 

“ Oh, don’t. Please don’t speak like that.” 

“You know what I mean. What ’s he been doing with 
his money since I left ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ He has given it all away. ’ ’ 

“ To whom?” 

“ This House, and other things.” 

“All of it?” 

“Yes, all.” 

Mrs. Morton laughed and coughed. 

“ Then you won’t get that. You won’t be better off than 
I was.” 

Along the corridors and up and down the stone stairs the 
whispering sisters had flown. Like brown bees they swarmed 
about the chaplain’s room — probationers to light and tend 
the fire, house-sisters with bedding from the store-cupboards 
— a better mattress, softer pillows, white blankets never used 
before; nursing-sisters with a carrying-chair. Very soon all 
was prepared by the busy sisters. 

“ Our doctor says that you want rest and quiet.” Morton 
had put his arm around his wife’s waist, and the carrying- 
chair stood waiting. “ My room is ready for you — for the 
chaplain’s wife. Come, dear. Home at last — You ’ll soon 
be strong and well again.” 


372 


The Ragged Messenger 

‘ ‘ Does our doctor say that ? ’ * 

Supported by her husband on one side, by Lady Sarah on 
the other, the chaplain’s wife was conducted to the chair. 

“ I want to speak to you,” she whispered, as they put her 
in the chair. 

Suddenly the voice of old Bigland, loud and angry, came 
from the echoing passage. 

“ It ’s not true. It ’s a lie — a wicked lie. Say that it ’s 
not true.” 

Colbeck hurried to the door to intercept him. 

“ Hush. Not so much noise out there.” 

“His evil angel.” 

The old man stood on the threshold for a moment, pointing 
with a shaking hand, then disappeared. 

“Our idiot,” said Mrs. Morton. “ Going strong as ever, 
I suppose. . . . Oh, send them all away. I want to 

speak to you alone.” 

Obeying her wish they all left her with the chaplain, and 
waited outside the closed door until his voice summoned 
them. 

“You are very good to me,” she whispered, as he knelt 
by the chair with his face close to hers. “ I want to say — 
that — I am sorry. That ’s all. Do you believe? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ What ’s happened to him ? ” 

“ Oh, why do you ask ? ” and his voice sounded like a cry 
of pain. “ Why can’t you forget? Why don’t you forget? 
. . . He is well. There. I know it. He is well. I 

would not lie to you. Why could n’t you let me forget ? ” 

As the four sisters lifted the chair, Colbeck took his friend 
by the arm again, and, squeezing it, whispered: 

“ Leave us alone now, old fellow. Don’t come with us. 
I ’ll come back and tell you — soon — and then you can go 
to her.” 

Half an hour passed and then Lady Sarah returned, sent, 
she said, by Colbeck to say that the patient was comfortably 


373 


The Ragged Messenger 

in bed, and that he would come back very soon now. The 
chaplain had drawn one of the thirteen chairs from the wall 
and was sitting at the big oak table. Resting his head on 
one hand, he sat waiting very patiently; now and then look- 
ing round, to listen for the doctor’s footsteps; and then look- 
ing down again to the polished surface, on which with the 
forefinger of his other hand he was slowly tracing invisible 
curves in the grain of the wood. After a time he got up 
and walked about the room slowly and thoughtfully, with 
hands clasped behind his back. Lady Sarah, when he spoke 
to her, observed that his voice was calm, steady, and lower 
than usual. At last Colbeck came back. 

“ Now, the truth.” 

“ I can only tell you what I think. We ’ll have a consul- 
tation to-morrow.” 

“ What do you think ? ” 

As the two men stood close together in front of the crack- 
ling logs, Colbeck spoke very slowly — a few words at a time, 
then a pause. Lady Sarah could not see his face, but it 
seemed that he was making the face tell more than the 
words. 

“I think she is gravely ill of course — but that of itself 
should not alarm us. She is quite comfortable now. You 
can go and sit with her. I think the danger would be — in 
herself. The fear of impaired power of resistance — if an 
unfavorable turn announced itself. I think— that would be 
— a very real cause for ” 

“ How long? ” 

‘‘Ah! If my fear were realized — it would be — only a 
question of time.” 

“ How long— days, months, years? How long? ” 

“ One can never say. We should fight to the last.” 

“ How long ? Iam not afraid of the truth.” 

* ‘ In such an event — a very few days is all I could dare 
hope for.” 

‘‘So that ’s your verdict.” Morton turned, and, looking 


374 


The Ragged Messenger 

down into the fire, spoke in a very low voice as though talk- 
ing to himself. “That’s your verdict. Guilty! Guilty, 
guilty, I am not afraid. But she asked after him. She left 
him, though; and she has come home.” 

‘ ‘ Morton — my dear fellow ’ ’ 

Colbeck had an arm around him and was getting him away 
from the open fire. 

“ A very few days. You all think her guilty.” 

“Morton. Collect yourself. Summon your strength.” 

“ I tell you she is innocent.” 

“ Lady Sarah, help me to ” 

“Yes, Lady Sarah,” and Morton turned to her, speaking 
in the same low voice, but more and more rapidly. “You 
must help. I asked you that before, did n’t I ? Lady Sarah, 
don’t fail me. Now for your answer. Now for your answer. 
Now for your answer.” 

Colbeck, holding him firmly, whispered in his ear. 

“Morton. Steady. Remember. A Messenger should be 
brave. ’ ’ 

Instantaneously the dull, gray face lit up; he shook him- 
self free from the guarding arm; threw back his head; and, 
completely changing his whole manner, spoke with sudden 
and intense earnestness. 

“Yes, Lady Sarah, help if you can. He gives us little time 
to fight our battle. He thinks she is doomed. We must 
save her if we can. A human soul hanging in the balance. 
God’s work defiled by the hand of man, but we must give 
it back to its Maker white as the driven snow. . . . 

All right, dear old fellow, I ’ll go and sit with her now.” 

In the silence of the House one could hear the sisters 
whispering behind the stone walls. The life of the vast 
building seemed to swing like a noiseless wheel upon an 
axis formed by the iron bed whereon the chaplain’s wife lay 
gravely ill. All thought of her; all whispered their unceas- 
ing thought. Two alien nurses were in charge; two white 


The Ragged Messenger 


375 


caps and blue dresses summoned by telephone from a hos- 
pital, who, passing up and down to and from their meals, 
walked in the midst of brown serge and metal crosses and 
fed the whispering. There had been a consultation. He of 
whom the hospital nurses spoke with almost shuddering awe 
as Sir Richard had been here. There was no service in the 
chapel. The thought of the sick-room seemed to kill the 
sense of time. Was it only last night that she came home? 
Impossible to believe — it seemed so long ago. 

The chaplain was praying with her. His voice could be 
heard in the corridor. He had been praying nearly all day, 
off and on, — the news came down at supper — or reading out 
of the Bible; and the patient had dozed off and on. More 
praying than Doctor Colbeck quite approved of, thought the 
blue-gowned visitor. But in the circumstances, no doubt 
prayers were “indicated.” Doctor Colbeck knew what he 
was about — none better — though of course a back number, 
as one might say; not up to date, like the young fellows at 
our place. They would have opened Sir Richard’s knife- 
case for him before this. 

In the room which sympathetic nursing-sisters were not 
permitted to enter, the patient was lying on softest bedding 
beneath the gray print in the black frame. Her head 
propped up very comfortably by the soft white pillows, she 
lay on her back with legs drawn up in apparently an easy 
attitude, since she never changed it. She looked very pale, 
but the eyes were quite bright. The features seemed rather 
pinched, but the pale face looked refined, more full of intelli- 
gence than it used to be, with a new expression of bright in- 
terest — almost anxious interest. As Colbeck talked to her 
for a minute or two the expression was strongly marked — a 
curious anxiety as of some one listening intently, afraid of 
missing a word or failing to understand, or of a person wait- 
ing anxiously for somebody to arrive, or for something long 
expected to happen. It seemed to have no meaning because, 
evidently, she had not the slightest difficulty in catching the 


376 


The Ragged Messenger 

drift of even a hint; she smiled as she listened; and she had 
no questions to ask while she and the doctor were alone. 

Colbeck had sent the chaplain away with Lady Sarah to 
get some food, and now the doctor very kindly and gently 
hinted that the patient might at any time by the slightest 
sign cause him to check the flow of good words. With a 
friendly smile, he hinted at some innocent little signal to be 
arranged between them. She might ask for an illustrated 
newspaper — name to be settled now — and, as soon as he 
heard that, he would know what it meant. He could not 
allow a patient to be tired by the voice of even the best of 
good fellows. 

“ Oh, no,” and the patient smiled. “ I like the voice. I 
don’t listen. It sends me to sleep. But I like the voice — 
now,” and she smiled again — “ That ’s a change — is n’t it, 
Doctor?” 

Upon a chair near the bed, there was a pile of Mudie’s 
books, brought by Lady Sarah at the patient’s request, but 
not used by the patient; in a basin swathed with white cloths 
and outer flannels there was ice for the patient to suck after 
the recurring sickness; there was a saucer and a spoon vis- 
ible — otherwise the room was scrupulously tidy. The blue 
uniforms were keeping things ship-shape. They glided in 
and out like shadows, changing guard night and morning. 
The day nurse had a chair in the corridor, but was back in 
a moment when wanted. The doctor could not have two or 
three people in the room at a time. The chaplain himself, 
or Lady Sarah, and the nurse performing her duties — but not 
Lady Sarah and the chaplain together. The doctor himself 
took the chaplain away for his meals now. He used to go 
submissively, and he ate only enough to keep himself alive 
it was guessed among the whisperers. His dark face looked 
dreadful, they said — grayer and thinner. In the silence of 
the House, if you crouched on the stone stairs, you could 
hear his voice praying, every time the oak door opened. 


377 


The Ragged Messenger 

Lady Sarah sitting with two books on her lap had just 
asked a question. No answer. Silently Lady Sarah moved 
her chair to see the patient’s face, which was hidden by the 
raised knees. Not asleep; the bright eyes open, the white 
face looking anxiously intent. As she sat waiting for the 
patient to speak, Lady Sarah heard and tried not to listen to 
the rapid, shallow breathing. It sounded like the puffing of 
a distant train — a goods train puffing slowly by down at 
Talgarth, heard in the silence of a summer night through 
Lady Sarah’s open window. The nurse, listening with a 
practised ear as she stood for a moment by her neatly ar- 
ranged table, glanced at the last entry in green ink upon her 
trim, well-kept chart — 36; then like a blue shadow glided 
out to the corridor. 

“ What did you say ? ” 

“ Shall I read to you ? ” 

“Lady Sarah,” there had been another long pause. “I 
am sorry — what I said. I see — Wrong. It ’s the other. 
Our doctor,” and she smiled. 

Lady Sarah’s eyes sank beneath the intent brightness of 
the patient’s eyes, and her hand rose from the book to the 
metal chain about her neck. Then, looking up, she met the 
bright eyes again. 

“Are you angry with me ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” said Lady Sarah. 

“ Do you mind telling me.” The painfully anxious look 
was very strongly marked — a curious, inexplicable anxiety 
that seemed to make each word a command it would be 
wicked to disobey. “It is our doctor ? ” 

“Yes. . . . He wants me to marry him.” 

“You will?” 

“I — I think so,” and Lady Sarah blushed, and tears 
spread a faint red stain as of shame about her eyes. “ Now 
shall I read to you ? . . . The novel, or may I go on 

with St. Matthew? ” 

“No. I want to go to sleep. . . . When he has done 


378 


The Ragged Messenger 

dinner — not now — don’t disturb him — send my husband to 
pray to me. ... I want to go to sleep.” 

The patient seemed a little better — a very little better to- 
night. I,ess sickness, less pain from the weight of the light 
bedclothes if now and then the raised knees failed to carry 
them comfortably; pulse not quite so frequent — -just now, 
when the three entries in the colored inks were made on the 
four-hours’ divisions of the well-kept chart; temperature 
the same; but fewer, and therefore, deeper, inspirations to 
the minute; voice certainly a shade stronger. 

The chaplain was kneeling by the bed praying and read- 
ing. On the bedside chair his black Bible lay open, sup- 
ported by Mudie’s new books in their colored cloth bindings. 

“ ‘ I am come a light into the world,’ ” read the chaplain, 
in a low deep voice, “ ‘that whosoever believeth on me should 
not abide in darkness.’ . . . Do you hear, darling ? Who- 
soever believeth ! All true — divinely true! the living un- 
dying truth,” and he went on reading: “ ‘For I have not 
spoken of myself; but the Father which sent me ’ ” 

‘‘Stop now . . . I want to talk to you.” Slowly and 

carefully she drew one of his hands in both of hers, and held 
it on the sheet below her chin. ‘‘You believe I am sorry? 
. . . Where is he ? I want to know. It was all my fault. ” 

“He is well — far away — in Australia — well provided for 
by the friends who sent him — doing well — in a new world.” 

Carefully and slowly she raised the strong hand above her 
dry lips and kissed it. 

“You ought to be there too — in a new world. You ’re 
too good for this old one. ... I am very sorry.” 


XXXIII 


T HE great House seemed to sink into a deeper silence. 

Hushed behind the stone walls, the sisters whispered 
with lips against ears. Matting and drugget had been laid, 
and not an echo was raised by the footsteps of the three 
doctors as they walked towards the end window above the 
narrow street. Colbeck and Sir John and Sir Richard. Sir 
John was the immense man in the fur coat, white-haired and 
pink- necked, carrying his huge silk hat behind his broad 
back. The small dark man with his hands in his pockets 
was Sir Richard. 

There was to be no operation — the definite tidings came 
down at the hour of the mid-day meal. The three doctors 
had been of one mind — impossible. The very words of their 
decision had, it was professed, reached the sisters’ tables. 
So undermined by her way of living that what might other- 
wise have been attempted was here impossible! Rising 
from their meal in the depths of the gigantic building, 
the nursing-sisters broke into groups of threes, consulting 
together as the three doctors had consulted; a horrible 
echo of the real thing, the acting of children in a morbid 
game, and yet with the sympathy and comprehension of 
grown-ups. 

Then till dusk, behind the stone walls, the inaudible whis- 
pers flew. The chaplain’s wife was dying of peritonitis. It 
was doubtful — the doubt came down at tea-time — if she 
would last through the coming night. They were keeping 
her under morphia. They were giving her ‘ ‘ hypodermics ” 

379 


380 


The Ragged Messenger 

of strychnine and morphia, alternately. She was not uncon- 
scious — mind quite clear. 

The nurse had been using the spray of the deodorant, and 
there was a sharp aromatic perfume like pine oil about the 
silent room. It was very tidy; all ship-shape; the novels 
gone, everything neat and trim, nothing out of its place; the 
low fire, fed with a coal at a time, burning clearly. There was 
a candle with a yellow shade upon the mantelpiece, and a 
green-shaded reading lamp, guarded by a dark screen, upon 
the nurses’ table. In the light from the lamp the nurses’ 
belongings showed all in order; small black portfolio, stop- 
watch, thermometer, in its metal case, leather-covered re- 
ceptacle for the colored inks, pens, and the well-filled chart 
— the accurately marked log always ready for official inspec- 
tion. The jagged curves had been sweeping upward through 
the four hours’ squares— green ink for respiration, red ink 
for pulse, black ink for temperature — all climbing across the 
ruled lines. All ship-shape. No error in the last green 
marking. In the silence of the room the breathing from the 
bed was like the sound of a train puffing faintly in the dis- 
tance — one of the outward bound expresses passing in the 
night down at Talgarth, seeming as one listened to begin to 
catch its speed, to begin to race faster and faster towards its 
far-off goal. 

In the yellow candle-light, the face surrounded by the 
dark hair seemed to be modelled in wax and less than life- 
size, except for the too large orbits. The delicate features 
seemed to be refined to insignificance; the hollows in the 
cheeks were too deep, making the mouth seem too promi- 
nent; and in the exaggerated circles beneath the forehead 
there were shadows that seemed to add to the brightness 
of the widely opened eyes. Upon the white sheet the frail 
hands looked yellow and waxy as the weak fingers moved 
restlessly to and fro. 

The light from the candle and the fire seemed to concen- 
trate itself upon the iron bed, the wall with the black-framed 


38i 


The Ragged Messenger 

print, one chair, a strip of the bedside carpet; and to leave 
all round the room a zone of darkness in which the shadows 
seemed to move. A shadow near the door was moving: L,ady 
Sarah had passed out. Two shadows moved, and Colbeck 
and the nurse were standing by the bed; were being watched 
now intently by the bright eyes. 

The doctor stood talking to the patient — only a few words 
now and then, in a very low voice, with a very kind smile as 
he looked down at her. And she answered him, not without 
difficulty, but understanding perfectly what had been said. 
With a motion of the hand and a whispered word, he con- 
veyed a direction to the nurse. The thin brown lips seemed 
to be sticking to the teeth and causing discomfort. The 
nurse brought the mouth wash, freed the weak lips, made all 
comfortable, and the patient could speak and smile again. 
The doctor said a few more words, smiling very kindly; and 
the patient answered him with a wonderful smile upon the 
hippocratic face — intelligent, grateful, but expectantly anx- 
ious. Surely the something waited for so anxiously must 
happen soon! 

By a contraction of the eyebrows the doctor let the nurse 
know that she was to follow him; the shadows moved; and 
the patient was left alone in the silent room. 

Outside, in the corridor, Morton hadbeen waiting. Colbeck 
laid a hand upon his shoulder, and nodded towards the closed 
door, then took his hand and pressed it affectionately. Morton 
wiped his eyes, put away his handkerchief, and squeezed the 
hand with a convulsive pressure that made Colbeck wince. 

“You ’ll not disturb us now. You ’ll leave us alone to- 
gether now. Dear old fellow, you ’ll keep your promise 
now. . . .” 

Colbeck nodded his head affirmatively, and softly closed 
the oak door behind his friend. 

In the room a shadow seemed to move. The chaplain had 
come in and was standing beside his wife. 

Outside, through the closed door, his voice was heard 


382 


The Ragged Messenger 

almost immediately raised in prayer. Colbeck, walking up 
and down once or twice with L,ady Sarah, told the nurse to 
move her chair to a little distance from the door. Then very 
slowly the time passed while Colbeck waited for his friend 
to call him back to the room. 

The chaplain had been praying for a long time. 

“Mary — my darling — my wife — I would not lie to you. 
Believe. Keep your eyes on this and believe” — he was 
stooping over the bed and holding the metal cross high as 
the chain would allow — “ believe on this and I promise you 
salvation. I swear to you it has the power. Believe and it 
shall bear you safe to everlasting life.” 

“We ’ll see — if it can ” 

The bright eyes were fixed upon the cross. A gurgling in 
the throat, a spasm of sickness, choked the faint voice; and 
she moved her hand restlessly until she was able to speak 
again. “The cross — give me your cross. . . . Put it 

on. . . . We ’ll see.” 

He dragged off the chain, and his tears fell fast upon the 
dark hair as he raised her head from the pillows and put the 
chain about her neck. 

‘ ‘ Believe, my darling, and it shall carry you through the 
darkness to the light.” 

She was pulling feebly at her night-dress, while again the 
gurgling sickness stopped the whispered words. 

“Open. . . . Put the cross . . . next the skin. 

. . . We ’ll see.” 

The warm tears of pity fell fast as he unbuttoned and 
opened the night-dress, then the woollen vest beneath, and 
laid bare the sinner’s bosom — breasts that no child had 
pressed; the sunken platform of chance burdens, sinking 
now upon the heart that used to beat for hire. 

His eyes shone through the tears with an infinite yearning 
pity as he reverently placed the martyr’s symbol upon the 
clammy skin. 


The Ragged Messenger 


383 


“Now. Believe — believe now . . . Believe now — or 

you are lost. Do you hear me? . . . Do you under- 

stand? Oh, God, have mercy, and give me time to save her 
. . . give me time. . . . Oh, give me time.” 

As he stood above her, he had wiped the tears from his 
eyes with his coat-sleeve, and was gazing upwards to the 
ceiling; his lips trembling, his whole face twitching con- 
vulsively, the words coming in a loud cry of agonized 
supplication. 

“Yes,” and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Yes. It 
has come — Authority ! . . . Father, I hear you. Father, 
I thank you! . . .” and he looked down again. “Now, 

/tell you — /tell you not to fear, /tell you, you are saved. 
. . . Your sins have been washed away. Do you hear 

me? My darling, have no fear. You are going on a long 
journey — but taken in a flash of fire. A moment’s dark- 
ness, then the light.” 

“A long journey. . . . We’ll see. . . . But 
alone. ... If you were there to plead. . . .” 

‘ ‘ Then I ’ll go with you. . . . I ’ll be there to plead.” 

With his left hand he had taken her hand, crushing the 
frail, cold fingers in an iron grasp; with his right hand he 
had thrown open his coat, and was seeking the pocket 
beneath the coat tails. 

“ Do you hear me ? We are going hand in hand. Do you 
believe now? . . .” 

“Yes.” 

The report of the pistol rang through the silent House. 
It sounded like the slamming of a door echoing and rever- 
berating upon the stone walls along the stone corridors; and 
with the sharp detonation those near the room heard the dull 
thud of a weight fallen — an almost simultaneous thud, not 
an echo of the other sound. 

Hand in hand, the chaplain and his wife were dust now, 
or had gone on their journey. The dead man as he fell had 


384 


The Ragged Messenger 

dragged the dead body of the woman nearly from the bed, 
and the dark hair trailed upon the floor; the revolver had 
rolled away to the hearth; but the dead hands were firmly 
locked. Wreaths of smoke still hung beneath the ceiling, 
and the odor of the gunpowder mingled with the perfume 
of the disinfectants. Colbeck, on his knees bending over his 
dead friend, shuddered as in the glow from the fire he saw 
the luminous blood-red horror — the same face that in the 
momentary illusion he had seen upon the dream-cross; re- 
membered the words: “You will believe. Y ou will believe ’ ’ ; 
and, under the first shock of his grief, for a moment of time 
now, half believed that they had gone upon the journey. 


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